Little Thoughts
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: A series of one-shots in response to challenges. Mostly RT, but other pairings if requested. Chapters individually rated, but most T.
1. Birthday

_**Alright everyone, in case you aren't reading Vegas (which, btw, shame on you, go read it), I was really uninspired for one-shots, so I asked my readers to give me prompts. I'm going to try and do them in the order I get the requests for them, but I guess it all depends on how inspired I get.**_

_**If you have a request, drop it in a review, or a PM, or an email. I'd prefer it to be a one-word type deal, because they're easier to mold. I'll also take requests for particular ships or characters or missing scenes. **_

_**And if I just CAN'T write something in response to a prompt, I'll try and get in touch with you.**_

_**The title of the fic in general is a song by Bloc Party ('Little Thoughts' off the album 'Silent Alarm')**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

_For: Lori2279_

_Prompt: Birthday_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Happy Birthday Girl' by Sondre Lerche, off the album 'Phantom Punch'_

_Notes: To Lori: I tried making this smutty, but it just didn't fit in with the timeline or my inspiration._

* * *

"**Birthday"**

- For his fourth birthday, he got a scar.

Right above his knee, where mom said he fell and scraped it. He didn't remember that far back, but every time mom said _fell_, Trey would scowl, so he wasn't sure what really happened.

- For his sixth birthday, he got a bike.

But Trey stole that, told him it was too nice for him. He remembered Trey bending the front wheel when he tried to go off a jump that just didn't work out. Mom hadn't believed it wasn't his fault. He never got another.

- For his eleventh birthday, he got a beating.

He should've gotten a soccer ball, but Rick said he didn't deserve it. Not after he back talked his mom. He didn't remember back talking mom, but Rick did, and that was all that mattered. Rick had pulled him into the beat-up Chevy and drove him down to the dirty lake in the community 'park' and made him watch as he kicked his birthday present in. No one in the park had said anything, even though his eye was swollen shut and his nose was bleeding and broken and his arm was hanging limply at his side.

- For his fourteenth birthday, he lost his virginity.

In the back seat of her car while her boyfriend played beer pong inside. Trey had said it was about time - that the only way to beat the rumors of being a queer were to fuck as many girls as he could. So he went to the party with Trey, where all the girls called him things like _cute_ and _adorable_, which didn't help his reputation much. He wanted to tell Trey he could just try for it with Theresa and not some girl that was four years older than him, but Trey cited the need for _experience_. He remembered getting high, getting drunk, and getting laid. What he didn't remember was who the girl was, or what her name was. She may have been blonde, though.

- For his sixteenth birthday, he was getting a party.

He'd never had a birthday party. Well, not exactly true – mom had tried when he was a lot younger, before dad left, but after dad she kind of gave up on the whole _mother_ concept. But he wasn't with mom anymore. He was with the Cohens, and the Cohens liked parties.

Well, Kirsten liked parties, Sandy and Seth not so much, but for some reason, they seemed ultra-excited about this one. Seth was grinning ear to ear all the time, Sandy walking around with an evil glint in his eye. And Kirsten went about, smooth as glass, face not breaking its mask even when he asked about it.

Because – if he hadn't mentioned – it was supposed to be a surprise.

The Cohens sucked at surprises.

Really, Seth couldn't be more obvious if he wore a '_hey, we're planning Ryan's surprise 16__th__ birthday party'_ sign on his forehead. Sandy was almost as bad. Kirsten, though… he'd have to hand it to Kirsten. When he'd asked her _not_ to throw him a party, he was almost convinced they weren't planning one in the first place.

Then Seth had walked in the room and he knew she was playing him.

But for some reason, that didn't bother him. Mom used to lie all the time, but Kirsten hadn't _lied_. She'd been very specific _not_ to actually lie. She was just very good at sidestepping the matter. She'd make a great lawyer, maybe Sandy should get her to change careers.

He was surprised, though, that they were still doing this. Even after the Oliver shit, even after the almost-fight with Eddie and the Theresa stuff, they were still throwing him a birthday party. Like they meant to keep him for good, or something.

Which is why he '_dressed up nicely'_ to '_go to the movies with Seth'_, even though he knew they were going to his surprise party. Why would Seth wear a tie to the movies? The boy avoided ties like the plague – calling them 'Newport nooses' and making gagging noises every time he had to wear one.

But he got in the car with Seth – and Seth's maniacal grin – and tried not to scowl too much as they drove – not to the movies, but '_somehow'_ ending up at the country club. But, as Seth said, they '_might as well stop in and get something to eat'_ while they were here.

He really had to teach the boy to lie better. That was a thin excuse if he'd ever heard one.

But he got out of the car, resisted the urge to run away, followed his brother to the doors of the eerily silent country club. He steeled himself when Seth '_dropped_' something and told him to go on ahead. He balled his hands into fists at his side and went in, clenching his jaw when the lights turned on and what seemed like all of Newport popped up and yelled 'surprise!'

And he resisted the urge to turn around and leave, because the image of Kirsten standing on the stage – _glowing_ – with Sandy behind her – _proud_ – made him stay. So he ducked his head, hoping they would all think he was smiling and surprised. And he forced himself _not_ to punch his brother when the boy came up behind him and clapped him on the back and said "we _so_ got you".

- For his sixteenth birthday, he got more presents than he had for all of his other birthdays combined.

He wondered how they got this many guests. Most of Newport hated him – maybe they were here for Kirsten? But he knew the Cohens were here for him, and that was all that mattered. He didn't need anyone else.

Although the boost of Summer's support was nice, the lack of Anna mildly depressing. Marissa's presence wasn't something he wanted to deal with tonight. After the Oliver thing, he just couldn't… deal. Sleeping with Theresa had helped – it reminded him that Marissa wasn't the only girl in the world. But she was here, smiling at him, wishing him a happy birthday, confusing his head like she normally did.

Because if she wanted him, why would she go off with Oliver?

It wasn't just the Oliver thing, either. It was Luke, it was all the other guys at school that were her 'friends'. He didn't think she had ever cheated on him – because that would be 'wrong' – but he couldn't help thinking that if she liked him – if she _really_ liked him – then he would be enough for her. He would be enough, and she wouldn't have to flirt and try to befriend every broken boy that passed by.

That's what bothered him the most – she'd wanted to befriend Oliver because he was _troubled_. He was a beaten puppy and she wanted to rescue him. The only thing that separated him from Oliver – besides the whole 'not being batshit insane' thing – was the fact that Marissa found him physically attractive. Because that's all he was, right? A beaten puppy she wanted to take care of, who she found attractive enough to date.

He couldn't deal with her, not tonight. So he went outside and leaned against a parked, tarp-covered boat in the back parking lot. He wasn't sure why there was a boat there, but it was a nice place to try and avoid people. He knew the Cohens would call him on it later, but it was his birthday, right? He could sulk if he wanted to.

Kind of like that song.

And he could smoke if he wanted to, too. Ok, now he had the song in his head, which wasn't helping the headache. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd shoved in his pocket specifically for this occasion. It'd been a while since he smoked. The Cohens didn't look too fondly on it and for some reason, he wanted to be a good role model for Seth. Kind of a stupid thing to think, what with his predilection for getting into fights, but still.

The smoke filled his lungs and made his muscles relax. He took his time, relishing the cigarette – who knew when his next one would be? And even this, he'd have to try and avoid the Cohens as much as possible, or make up some excuse that he walked through a cloud of smoke from someone _else's_ cigarette. The worst part was, the Cohens would believe him, because they trusted him.

The back door opened and he automatically ducked around the side of the boat, out of sight.

"Ryan," he heard Kirsten's voice call into the dark. "I know you're out here." Shit, his mind whispered to him as he threw the cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out with his foot. "Stop hiding."

He stepped out from around the boat, ducking his head guiltily. She sighed and walked over to him. When she got close her nose wrinkled in distaste and he knew he was busted. But she didn't say anything, just reached out to straighten his tie and brush some ash off his suit jacket.

"Sorry," he muttered, not meeting her eye. She sighed again, frowning.

"I thought you'd kicked the habit," she didn't stop fussing with his appearance, brushing the bangs out of his face.

"I did," he shrugged again. She must've caught some look in his eye, because her shoulders slumped a little.

"I know you don't like parties. Or surprises. But Seth was so insistent…"

"It's not the party," he cut in quickly, finally looking her so she would know. He wanted her to know that _nothing_ she or Sandy or Seth could ever do would make him go back to smoking. "It's everything else."

"Seth wasn't sure whether to invite her or not," she caught his meaning, frowning again. "But we couldn't throw a party and not…"

"It's ok," he cut in again, shrugging. "I'm fine. And I'll stop."

"Good," she nodded, keeping her frown. "The last thing I need is a kid with lung cancer." She finally broke into a smile, placing her arm around his shoulders, "now let's go back to the party, so you can open your presents."

- For his sixteenth birthday, he got a family.

* * *

review


	2. Sparkle

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Tiggerblue

_Prompt: (I chose four of your words) midsummer, barbecue, sparkle, grass_

_Rating: K_

_Music: 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, off the album 'Alone in IZ World'_

_Notes: This may have been the easiest to write so far. And even though it was the fifth request I got, it inspired me the most. Happy belated Fourth of July to everyone (at least those who celebrate it)._

* * *

"**Sparkle"**

Summer was always his favorite time of year – the heat in the air, the peace, the lack of drama, the time spent away from school. It was his favorite season; it was the setting for his earliest childhood memories. The good ones at least, of car trips with mom, dad, and Trey; of him and Theresa down at the lake, daring each other to jump in first.

He's going to enjoy this summer, he decides as he sits on the wicker chair on the deck. It's his last one before college is over. Next year he'll have to worry about the future, but for right now, he's content just to watch Sophie teeter around, holding her American flag above her head as she tries to run after Seth. In front of him, Summer sits on the wooden steps leading from the deck to the yard, watching her fiancée and his sister play with a soft smile on her face that he rarely gets to see.

Off to his left, Sandy stands by the grill with a large metal spatula and an apron that commands everyone to kiss the cook – a proposition Kirsten keeps taking advantage of. Sophie joins in occasionally, giggling as her mother picks her up and her father turns his cheek so she can kiss him and tell him he's the bestest cook in the history of ever.

The lemonade is cold in his hand and the sun tints the horizon pink as smoke curls lazily up and the burgers sizzle over the hot coals. He's sure he's never felt this content before, with the sound of neighbors distantly talking and laughing drifting over the fences and the smell of barbecue making his stomach rumble.

Off in the yard, Sophie squeals as Seth picks her up, making monster noises and pretending to carry her to his lair. Summer launches herself off the steps and chases after them, playing the white knight. He senses someone behind him and process of elimination makes it Kirsten settling her hand on the back of his chair, staring in the same direction as they watch the engaged couple fight over Sophie.

Seth proposed last Chrismukkah after Summer got back from her latest trip – this one to Alaska to protest the drilling of oil. To everyone's surprise, she accepted without hesitation. The Cohens had allowed it, but only if they waited until they graduated to have the wedding.

He knows he's never seen them so happy – finally content and secure enough in their relationship to relax and enjoy it. Kirsten pats him on the shoulder when the perfection of the day slides a little.

He misses Taylor like crazy, but sometimes he's not sure if he misses _her_ or the _idea_ of her. He knows he misses comfort. He knows he misses regular sex. He knows he misses the way her hand would lace through his and the smell of her shampoo when she'd curl against him at night and the soft hum of her voice as she cleaned. He knows he misses the way she would sweep her bangs out of her eyes. He knows he misses the way she would look at him like he was her world.

The hand on his shoulder is comforting, though, and he focuses back on his family. They're here and they're all he needs – for now, at least. He knows he can't always rely on them; that someday, he'll have to get married and have children on his own, but the thought makes him nervous, so he turns his attention to the little girl on the lawn with grass stains on her knees and a smile on her face.

He wonders if he'll have a girl, with hair like Taylor's, or if it'll be some other shade.

He knows he's thinking too much and he's thankful when Sandy calls them for dinner. He's the last one to the grill and Sandy claps him on the back after he slides a burger onto his plate and they join the rest of the family at the wooden table. They talk and eat as the sun sinks further behind the trees, casting everything into shadows and making the temperature drop.

It's the middle of summer and he knows he's never felt more accepted in his life than right now. And as much as he wishes she was here, she's not and he knows he can't dwell on it. So when the sun sets and Seth breaks out the box of sparklers with a childish grin, he laughs and takes one.

They light them on the dying embers of the grill, him and Seth and Summer, as Kirsten holds Sophie's hand to make sure she doesn't get near them and Sandy sits on the wicker chair with his hands behind his head and watches them.

He watches Seth chase after Summer and they sword fight with the sparklers, the light throwing their faces into sharp relief, teeth glinting white as they smile. He writes his name in the air, trying to see if he can do it fast enough so he can see it all before it fades. He thinks he manages it once, but he's not quite sure and when he writes her name in the air, it stays burned there and hovers, but no one else sees it, so he's sure it's just a hallucination.

He ducks as Summer tries to light his hair on fire and they both gang up on Seth and chase the boy down. Sophie squeals because she wants to help her brother, but Kirsten holds her back.

And when there's only one sparkler left in the box, they sit on the steps of the deck and stare out into the yard. In the middle, Seth lights the last one and holds it in front of him. They watch it smolder, the sparks burning images into their retinas.

It's the Fourth of July and he knows he's never felt this alive.

_

* * *

_

review


	3. Coffee

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Becca

_Prompt: Large double-double coffee_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Again and Again' by The Bird and the Bee, off the album 'The Bird and the Bee'_

_Notes: Well, so much for me posting these in order… Anyway, this was so much freaking fun to write (although I DID have to google what a 'double-double' coffee was.) Also, I must thank you guys for the awesome prompts, cause (if the rapid updating hasn't tipped you off) I've gotten really inspired! _

* * *

"**Coffee"**

Ok, how hard is it to get coffee right?

Seriously. I mean, I know there's a lot of options out there, but how hard is _coffee, black_?

She never fucking gets it right.

When I was an intern, I busted my ass getting every single thing right, and this chick can't even remember _coffee, black_?

Every single day, she comes into my office with a _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_, with a stupid smile plastered on her face, like she's God's gift to this office.

The first day it happens, I go to the other offices to see if maybe she just mixed up the cups – maybe someone else got my coffee.

No such luck.

She didn't have trouble getting George _his_ black coffee. Just me, apparently.

The second day, I make sure to speak slowly: _coffee, black_.

What do I get?_ Large coffee, two cream, two sugar_.

"Maybe she _likes_ you," my wife teases over the phone on the third day.

"Maybe she's just stupid," I mutter back. She giggles at me and tells me to give the girl a break.

On the fourth day, I write it down, pretending to be on the phone when she comes in for my order. I write it on a piece of notepaper that says '_Ryan Atwood'_ at the top. _Coffee, black_. I hand it to her and motion my thanks, pointing at the phone to signal that I can't speak.

She smiles and takes the paper and comes back with _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_.

My secretary laughs when I come out and ask her if she wants it. She's taken the last three, and she takes today's with a sympathetic smile.

By my fifth day with no coffee, I'm angry.

I start asking questions: who is she? Is she the boss's daughter or something? Because there has to be a reason she's an intern here. It's obviously not brains.

Taylor drops in on the sixth day. She brings me _coffee, black_ and I remember why I love her.

On the seventh day, I risk ordering from the intern again. She gives me her smile and I resist the urge to throw the coffee in her face when she brings it to me – cream, sugar, and all.

Sandy stops by on the eighth day, and we both order coffee.

She gets his right. Mine comes out _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_. At least Sandy resists the urge to laugh until she's out of the room.

On the ninth day, I bring a mug and a tin of instant to work with me. Instant sucks, but it's better than _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_, served with an idiotic smile.

On the tenth day my boss drops by to ask me why I've been acting a little cranky. I tell him my wife's pregnant, so I haven't been getting much sleep. He nods his head and toasts me with his coffee. I'm forced to toast back and swallow down a mouthful of _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_.

I hope he doesn't tell my wife I said that about her. She may kill me.

On the eleventh day, I sit the intern down in the chair across the desk from me. She gives me that _smile_ and folds her hands on her lap and waits for me to talk. I explain the situation as best as I can – my _need_ for coffee, and how I can't drink it unless it's _coffee, black_.

"Do you see where I'm going with this?" I ask her and I drop my head to the table when she shakes her head _no_, looking confused.

I repeat my order: _coffee, black_. I tell her what she always brings me: _coffee, two cream, two sugar_. Does she see the difference now?

She gets up and smiles at me indulgently. "Well, maybe you _need_ some sweetness, hun." She giggles and walks out of my office.

On the twelfth day I call my wife. She tries to calm me down as I stare at the cup on my desk: _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_.

"Maybe she's deaf," she suggests.

"Maybe she's stupid," I argue back. She sighs and tells me the baby's kicking.

On the thirteenth day, my wife comes by the office again with lunch and a cup of _coffee, black_. I kiss her and put my hand on her stomach and I feel the baby move and I try to eat and drink with one hand. She tells me he'll be a soccer star with the way he kicks. I tell her I hope she didn't have an affair with a soccer player.

She hits me over the head.

On the fourteenth day, I offer to go with her when she goes on the coffee run. She gives me a weird look and I cite my need to get out of the office for a while.

"Don't you have a wife?" she asks me, brows furrowed. I have to explain that I'm not hitting on her. I just want to get out of the office for a while and I'll help her carry the coffee back.

She orders _large coffee, two cream, two sugar_, right in front of me. I shove the coffees into her hands and send her back to the office. I reorder mine.

On the fifteenth day, I make her cry. I don't mean to, but when I took off the lid of my coffee and saw the swirling, light-colored liquid, I asked her if she had some personal grudge against me.

Turns out, she's a little 'sensitive' – as my boss tells me later, in his office. I made her cry and he'd called me up and I sat there while he lectured me about proper office behavior.

He's making me take a two-week class on anger management and harassment in the workplace.

I make the mistake of asking if _she_ has to take the harassment workshop, since she's obviously hell-bent on making my life miserable. That earns me a "maybe you should take the day off." Without pay. Taylor isn't too happy when I come home in the middle of the day and explain it to her.

On the sixteenth day, Seth stops by with _coffee, black_ and a giant smile.

He tells me he met the intern on her first day, on her way out to get the coffee order. And he 'warned' her that Ryan Atwood tests the new interns. Apparently, I _tell_ them _black_, but what I _really_ prefer is _two cream, two sugar_. He told her that if she actually got me _coffee, black_, she'd get fired. He told her that I'd try all sorts of things to make her get me _coffee, black_.

I throw my _coffee, black_ at him and he runs out of my office, begging Moses to make it cool down.

My boss doesn't make me take the day off again, because Seth's not an employee.

I call the intern into my office and calmly explain the situation while Seth stands in the corner sullenly, his shirt soaking and stained. I told him he was lucky he didn't get burned.

On the seventeenth day, she sets my coffee on my desk with a smile. I open the lid.

_Coffee, black_.

Finally.

_

* * *

_

review


	4. Hot

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Hilary

_Prompt: brown paper bag, car with no air conditioning, pink polka dot flip-flop_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Sad Lisa' by Cat Stevens, off the album 'Tea for the Tillerman'_

_Notes: I think this may be a first for me... yup. Definitely a first. Also, sorry if you've given me a prompt and it hasn't gotten written yet. I just go with the flow on these things and I have to wait till something sparks my imagination._

* * *

"**Hot"**

"It's hot."

"I know it's hot."

"Well… do something about it."

"What do you want me to do? Call upon the weather gods and say '_hey, you know what'd be awesome? if you could tone it down a bit_.'"

The girl glares as the dusty Ford pulls into the nearly deserted gas startion.

"I thought you said you were going to get the air-conditioning fixed?" she starts again, folding her arms and looking out the window, not at him. He sighs.

"I was – am. I just didn't think I'd _need_ it in December."

"Maybe we just shouldn't go," she says finally, turning to face him. "I don't want to go."

"We have to go. Your dad'll hate me _more_ if his precious baby girl doesn't make it home for the holidays."

"Can we not do this?" she sighs, pressing her fingertips to her forehead. "I don't feel like doing this." She hates fighting with him. She's tired; she doesn't want to fight.

"Well, we have to," he says, misunderstanding. He shuts off the ignition, but leaves the keys in. "We have to go, and we have to tell them. Cause – no offense, honey – but there's no way you're hiding that." He points to her stomach, where it swells out under her crossed arms.

"My dad's gonna kill me," she says, turning to face the dashboard – dusty, with a coffee stain off to the left.

"I'm pretty sure he'll kill _me_," the man responds, running a hand through his shaggy hair. "I'm the one who knocked up his daughter…"

"While she's still in college," the girl adds, frowning.

"That, too."

"Maybe having a grandson – or granddaughter – will make him like you?" she suggests, voice low, tone hopeful.

"Honey," the man tries to soothe, "he hates me. He hates everything _about _me. He hates that you went to Berkeley, he hates that you met me, he hates that I'm a defense lawyer, he hates that I'm from New York, he hates that I'm liberal…"

"_I _hate that you're liberal," she cuts in dryly, which makes him smile. They sit in silence for a few minutes, before he sighs.

"I'm going in to get a drink, want something?"

She shakes her head _no_ and he gets out, sticking the nozzle into the car and starting the gas before heading inside to pay. She waits in the car, with the keys in the ignition so she can hear the radio as Madonna blasts through the speakers.

She's not sure what she's supposed to do. Because he's right – daddy _hates_ him. Hailey was always the deviant of the family, yet here she is, unwed, knocked up in her third year of college by a guy four years older than her that her dad hates.

And she knows that when she gets back to Newport, Jimmy will be there, with that skank _he_ knocked up, and they'll both look at each other and think _how did this become our lives?_

Because – as amusing as Sandy Cohen is – she's not sure she loves him.

He's not her type. He's not her class, her political group, her tax bracket, her religion. He's everything her daddy warned her against. Mom likes him, she knows, but only because he pisses off dad. Mom gets a kick out of seeing dad angry.

Sometimes she thinks she should break it off with Sandy. God knows she's tried these past three years. They've been off and on more times than Cliff and Nina on _All My Children_. Every time she tells him they're 'too different' and breaks up with him, he comes back and does something that makes her heart melt.

But then daddy gets angry and they argue and she breaks up with him again.

She imagines what her life will be like with Sandy. If she stays with him.

Would it be like this?

Would her life be like driving from Berkeley to Newport in a run-down Ford with no air-conditioning, with him singing show tunes loudly - overpowering the Top 40 on the radio - and her letting her hair blow out the window and debating whether she wants to get rid of her other sandal? She lost the left one sometime around Bakersfield when her feet got hot and she stuck them out the window. But they're pink and polka-dotted and they're cute, so she doesn't have the heart to throw the other one out.

Would her life be like this? Living in a beat up house while he worked as a public defender and she played happy homemaker and raised their… son? Daughter? She's only three months in, and they haven't agreed on whether they want to know the sex yet.

Because if they learn the sex, then it's real.

She'll have to start thinking of names and she knows Sandy'll want something Jewish and dad won't like that one bit. She wonders what religion they'd raise their child as. Because – as open-minded as she's tried to become at Berkeley – the whole _Jesus_ thing is kind of a big issue.

Would he want her to convert? She can't – daddy won't like that. Would he convert for her? No, his mother hates her just as badly as her father hates him – and she's ten times more likely to throw scalding hot latkes at her.

She squints as she looks outside and thinks that maybe the weather's an omen. It's the first day of winter break and the sun is scalding hot and the air is thick with dry heat. A man in plaid eyes her up with a smile and she sinks down in the car seat, putting her hands on her belly.

She could leave Sandy here, she thinks. Get out of the car and find a bus station or a payphone. She could go home and tell daddy that she's not sure who the father is. He'd be disappointed, but he'd take care of her.

The door to the gas station shop opens and he comes out, in his tattered t-shirt and frayed jeans and long hair and his smile. He walks to the car and leans his forearms on the frame as he ducks his head in the window.

"I know you said you didn't want anything, but I got you a bottle of water and a pint of ice cream." He hands her the food items before placing his own Coke in the other cup-holder. She stares at the ice cream as he tosses a brown paper bag on the driver's seat and goes to check on the gas pump. She cracks open the lid – Cherry Garcia. They just started making it and it's her favorite. Slowly, she takes the plastic spoon he handed her and digs in, feeling a heaviness in her stomach that's more than just the baby.

He finishes pumping the gas and gets back in the car and he smiles at her. "Ready?" She nods as he hands her the brown paper bag and asks her to hold it.

She does and whatever's inside is small and round and it makes a slight rattling sound when she moves it.

They drive in silence for a while, as Duran Duran plays and she eats the quickly melting ice cream. "Hey," he says after a while, flashing his grin at her. "Open the bag."

She nods and puts the lid back on the pint tub and sets it on the dash next to the coffee stain, keeping the spoon in her mouth so she doesn't have to put it down. She doesn't want it to get dirty. The bag crinkles as she opens it and she can't see what's inside, but when she puts her hand in, she feels smooth plastic under her fingers.

And when she takes it out, she stares at the small, clear container in her hand. She shakes it slowly and watches the cheap ring inside clank around.

"Marry me," he grins as they speed down the highway.

The spoon falls out of her mouth and bounces off her stomach. She looks at the ring – cheap and plastic – and looks at him – cheap, but so very far from plastic. His smile doesn't falter when she stays silent.

What would her life be like?

She imagines how her dad will yell, how he'll rant and scream and threaten to cut her off. She imagines how her friends will look when she tells them he proposed on the highway, in a beat-up Ford with no air-conditioning, with a vending machine ring while he wears a Def Leopard t-shirt and she only has one flip-flop. She imagines living in some broken down house in Berkeley, paycheck to paycheck.

And she imagines him, coming home from work, tired and pissed off like he does now – pulling at his tie and throwing it on the floor before coming over and kissing her. She imagines the way he'll smile when he sees their daughter – son? – for the first time.

"Sure."

She imagines how people back home will react when she tells them she said '_sure'_ and opened the plastic bubble and took out the ring and put it on her own finger. She imagines the disgust on their faces, hidden behind masks of polite smiles and insincere words.

And she smiles.

"Alright Caleb Nichol," he says, grinning recklessly and narrowing his eyes at the road ahead of them, "bring it on."

_

* * *

_

review


	5. Broken

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

* * *

_For: LifeOfRyan_

_Prompt: Ryan/Summer_

_Rating: M_

_Music: 'The Ballad of Resurrection Joe and Rosa Whore (Ilsa She-Wolf of Hollywood Remix)' by Rob Zombie, off the album 'American Made Music to Strip By'_

_Notes: I really have trouble seeing Summer with anyone else except Seth, so… I did what I could. It's rated for heavy suggestion and really, really depressing themes. Hopefully it's not too confusing with the lack of names... LifeOfRyan: it's probably not what you were expecting, but it's what came out… Also, I wrote this before you gave me the word prompt, so I may try that one later._

* * *

"**Broken"**

They were never meant to be together; they both knew it.

But they were broken and flawed and only too human.

They were never meant to be together; but they were.

It should've been him and it haunts him every day.

It should've been him, driving (her) to the airport. But his car had broken down, and (he) had offered to drive (her) instead.

In the three years they'd known each other, (they) had been the most distant from (each other).

Why would (he) offer to drive? It made no sense.

And it haunts him every day.

If his car hadn't broken down, (they) might still be alive.

The police had told them how (he) had swerved into a tree, killing (them) instantly.

It wasn't fair. It should've been him. He could've kept control of the car.

If his hadn't broken down…

She blames him. He knows she does; in the way she watches him get out of bed, in the way she doesn't talk to him unless its scathing words and cutting remarks.

He doesn't care. He knows it's his fault.

(She) had been his first love. (She) had been going to Greece. (She) was going to get better – stop with the drugs and alcohol, work with (her) father. (She) was supposed to get better.

(She) died instead.

(He) was his first friend here; the first unconditional acceptance. (He) was talented and funny and full of life. (He) had such a bright future.

Not anymore.

Because now (they) were dead and they were together.

They were never meant to be together.

They'd run away.

He'd gone first, because he had to get away from (his) parents. He couldn't call them his own parents anymore. He wasn't their child. (Their child) was dead.

He'd run away, gotten a job tending bar.

She'd followed him, to make him pay.

He wouldn't fight with her, though – couldn't. How could he fight the accusations when he knew he was to blame?

If his car hadn't broken down…

She needs someone to blame, someone to fight back. He won't. He can't.

He helps her the only way he knows how.

They were never meant to be together. She was supposed to be with (him) and he was supposed to be with (her). But (they) are gone, so who else do they have?

He spends his nights inside her, with his eyes closed and his head buried in her shoulder and her nails digging into his back, drawing blood.

He ignores the fact that she always says (his) name during.

Always.

It doesn't matter. He never says any name.

Their release is a way for her to remember (him); it's a way to make him forget (her).

They don't go to college.

She picks up smoking.

He drinks until he can't remember that it's his fault.

(His) parents come to see him, but without (him), they aren't a family anymore. (His) parents try to get him to come home, but they're broken. He can see it.

(Her) sister comes to see her, after (her) mother commits suicide. She's fifteen and angry. She blames him. He already knows it's his fault.

Because his car had broken down.

They were never meant to be together, but here they are.

In the aftermath, she watches him with angry eyes as he gets up out of bed. She calls him a bastard; tells him she wishes he'd never shown up in the first place. He doesn't argue.

Her father moves to Seattle after she runs away and (her) mother commits suicide. (Her) sister moves in with (his) parents. He wonders if they can ever be a family again.

Probably not.

They're all too broken.

Just like him.

Just like her.

She says (his) name in her sleep sometimes and she smiles. He always leaves the room. He leaves her with her dreams of (him).

He doesn't dream of (her). He dreams of (him), asking him why his car broke down. He dreams of (her) hair as (they) drive away.

He dreams of the last time he ever saw (them); (him) waving spastically and (her) with (her) back to him.

They were never meant to be together and he knows it won't last.

She'll go off to college eventually; she'll learn to live her life again. She has the opportunity. Her father sends her money, letters, begging her to come to Seattle.

He knows she'll go eventually, when she can't find solace in him anymore.

He won't go anywhere.

(His) parents aren't his family anymore. So he'll stay here, working in the bar. He doesn't deserve to go to college.

Not after he killed (his first love).

Not after he killed (his best friend).

(His brother).

* * *

review


	6. Hurt

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Spuffyshipper

_Prompt: Ryan ends up getting hurt somehow_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'The World At Large' by Modest Mouse, off the album 'Good News for People Who Like Bad News'_

_Notes: dude, I totally ship Spuffy, too… Also, all of my info for this chapter came from Wikipedia, and I totally made up the addresses. And we all know how reliable Wikipedia and me making stuff up is… Also, I'm not quite sure what's with me lately and making everyone pregnant. It's like an epidemic._

* * *

"**Hurt"**

The boy opens his eyes.

"Hello, son," I say as warmly as I can. You never know with these kinds of patients.

"Hi."

_Patient is hesitant, wary, confused. _

"I'm Dr. Ramirez," I introduce myself, sitting on the chair next to the bed – to be more personal. "Do you remember your name?"

"Ryan Atwood," he responds after a pause.

_Patient hesitated, most likely due to confusion rather than memory loss_.

"Where do you live, Ryan?"

_Use the patient's first name, for familiarity_.

"9320 Vine Street, in Chino."

_Patient gives an address different from insurance forms._

"Wait," he amends, speaking slowly, brow furrowing. "That's not right." He hesitates another second before answering again. "6205 El Paseo Street, Newport Beach."

_Patient gives another address different from insurance forms._

"Alright," I continue. "How old are you, Ryan?"

"Eighteen."

_Patient is confident in age, though he is wrong._

"I see," I tell him. "And your parents are?"

"Frank and Dawn Atwood," he says.

_Patient becomes guarded_.

"... and Sandy and Kirsten Cohen," he continues. "You can call them."

_Patient is aware that he's in a hospital._

"Tell me, Ryan," I say gently, leaning forward. "What is your last, clear memory?"

The patient looks at me.

* * *

I hate this part. Actually, I'm not sure what doctor _likes_ this part, but still.

"Thank you for waiting," I start off as they all stand up – the one girl struggling. The older woman helps her up. I can't keep track of their names.

"Is he ok?" The older man asks insistently, moving forward. I look at my chart to remember his name. _Sandy Cohen, age 52, Law professor, Berkeley College._

"He's fine, Mr. Cohen," I reassure the man. "He has a mild concussion…"

I really hate this part.

"And…" the older, blonde woman presses. _Kirsten Cohen, 48, owner, NewMatch,_ my chart tells me.

"Now, don't panic," I tell the group and off to the side, the pregnant woman glares. My chart is no help there, she could be either one of the girls. "But we believe Mr. Atwood has post-traumatic, retrograde amnesia. There's no need to worry," I continue when the pregnant one gasps, hand going to her stomach and the Cohen couple look stricken. The other two look just as horrified. Process of elimination makes the dark-haired boy _Seth Cohen, 28, graphic artist, Dark Horse Comics._ "Usually patients can recover anywhere from one hour to a couple days, sometimes longer. Very rarely is it permanent."

"Can we see him?" Mrs. Cohen asks, looking past me into the boy's room.

"You can't all go in at the same time," I inform them. "Too many people at once may overwhelm him and only serve to confuse him more. One at a time is probably best."

Mrs. Cohen nods, then steps aside, motioning for the pregnant one to step forward. That would make her the wife, I assume.

"Let me prepare him," I say. "And please, refrain from any gestures of affection." They all look confused. "Retrograde amnesia," I explain, "causes memory loss of more recent events. The further back you go, the clearer the memory. The first address he gave was a residence in Chino." The patient's family twitches in unison. Strange. "So until he remembers fully who all of you are, it's best to avoid being overly friendly and affectionate."

* * *

"You ready for visitors?" I ask the boy. He nods.

_Patient is nervous._

"Hi, Ryan," she says shyly as she comes in, hand resting on her stomach.

"Hi…"

_Patient doesn't seem to remember his wife._

"What are you doing here?"

_Alright, maybe he does._

"Do you remember me?" she asks, sitting gently on the chair next to the bed.

"Yeah, you're Taylor Townsend."

_Patient is sure of wife's name_.

"But… no offense, it's not that it's not… nice seeing you and all, but why did they send you in first?" He seems to notice her stomach for the first time. "Who knocked you up?"

_Patient thinks he's eighteen still_.

Maybe I should take his wife out of the room. The tears well up in her eyes and she looks down at her stomach. I wish I had prepared her for this. If she tells him everything, it may overload him…

"No one you know," she whispers. "They sent me in first because I would have the least emotional impact."

_Patient's wife is adept at handling the situation_.

"Oh." The patient pauses and shifts uncomfortably. "How many years am I off?"

"What?" the wife asks quietly, looking at me for direction.

The patient makes an annoyed noise. "I may be lying in a hospital bed, but I'm not stupid. I know I'm not eighteen anymore."

"You remember how old you are now?" I raise my clipboard to make a note, but he shakes his head.

"I _want_ to say I'm eighteen," he starts, "but she's obviously not, and we're the same age. Just tell me how old I am."

"Twenty-eight," I inform him.

_Patient is growing upset._

"Ten years," he says, face going blank. "I can't remember ten years?" The patient looks down at his hands as he thinks. "I'm married."

"You remember?" I ask, raising my clipboard again.

"I'm wearing a ring," he holds up his hand with a reproachful look.

_Patient's a bit of a smartass._

The patient lets his hand drop, then turns to the girl. I look at my chart, because I forget what he called her. _Taylor Atwood, age 28, translator, HarperCollins Publishing._ "I'm married and they sent you in first."

_Patient does not seem to have lost the ability to draw conclusions in the trauma._

She looks down at the floor as he stares at her. "I married Taylor Townsend?"

_Patient may be becoming overwhelmed_.

"I should go," she whispers, trying to stand up. She struggles, so I move forward to grab her elbow, helping her stand. "I'll send Sandy or Kirsten or Seth in."

_Patient looks guilty_.

"Can you handle another visitor?" I ask the patient. He nods.

* * *

Mr. Cohen – older – enters the room with a smile.

"Sandy," the patient sounds relieved, expectant, hopeful.

"Hey, kiddo," the man says, sitting in the chair. I notice, though, that he stops himself from patting the boy's shoulder. Good. "How do you feel?"

"Could _someone_ just tell me what happened? They won't tell me anything."

_Patient is becoming hostile._

"They want to see if you can remember it on your own," the man explains gently, which seems to calm the boy.

"But I can't," the patient protests, sullenly. "The last thing I remember is going to the sweatshirt party and Sadie dumping me, and the next thing I know I'm in a hospital and married to a very pregnant Taylor Townsend."

"Sadie," the man shakes his head, as if remembering. "You can't remember anything past Sadie?"

"No."

_Patient seems to be shutting down_.

Mr. Cohen obviously sees this and stands up. "I think I'll send Seth in." Right, Seth Cohen, adoptive brother.

* * *

"Hey, man," he sits in the same chair, twitching nervously. The first thing the patient does is look at the new arrival's hand.

"You're married, too?"

"Yeah. Weird, huh?"

"Please, tell me it's Summer, and not… like, Holly Fischer."

"It's Summer," the boy looks at the patient strangely and I look at my clipboard for reference. _Summer Cohen, 28, public relations, G.E.O.R.G.E._

"Good," the patient nods. Maybe something is clicking?

"I have to ask," the Cohen boy cuts in. "Why Holly Fischer?"

"Well, I'm married to Taylor Townsend, apparently," the patient shakes his head in disbelief. "Holly was the only comparison I could think of." The Cohen boy looks stricken, but he doesn't say anything. The patient furrows his brow again.

"I don't… I don't have a daughter or something, do I?"

_Patient is remembering things that didn't happen_.

"Um, no, man," the Cohen boy laughs nervously, obviously upset at his adoptive brother's condition. "Why?"

"Cause," the patient starts slowly, "I can remember this little girl…" he trails off and closes his eyes. "Blonde, like… eight years old?"

"Sophie!" the Cohen boy exclaims, looking excited. "You remember Sophie?"

I look at my chart. _Sophie Rose Cohen, age 9, daughter of Sandy and Kirsten Cohen_.

"Isn't that The Nana's name?"

_Patient references family members not mentioned on form_.

"Yeah, they named her after The Nana."

"Who?"

"Mom and dad," the Cohen boy smiles. The patient nods and tries to digest this.

"Rose." The patient nods again, more resolutely. "Sophie Rose. She likes apricots."

"Can't get enough of them," the Cohen boy looks ecstatic. "It's a lot better than her popcorn phase."

"And her gummy bear phase," the patient lowers his head, starting to smile. "I had asparagus at your wedding."

"Alright," the other boy raises his eyebrows, "kinda random, but I'll take it."

"It was outside," he recalls, speaking slowly.

_Patient's adoptive brother seems to trigger memories easily_.

"My wedding?"

"Yeah. It was outside. I wore a yamaca."

"You looked hilarious in it."

"Marissa wasn't Summer's Maid of Honor."

The Cohen boy stiffens, looking at me for help. I'm not quite sure what's going on.

"No," he says slowly and the patient frowns. "I think I'm gonna send mom in." The patient frowns deeper, but nods. "You're doing really good, man," Mr. Cohen – younger – tells the patient encouragingly before leaving.

"Are you alright to see another visitor?" I ask.

"I wanna see Kirsten." It's not a yes, but he seems determined to see his adoptive mother.

* * *

She comes in the room, face lined with worry.

"Hello, Ryan." So far she and Mrs. Atwood have been the best keeping things impersonal.

"Kirsten," he sounds desperate. "Marissa wasn't at Seth and Summer's wedding." Mrs. Cohen purses her lips, but doesn't say anything.

"What do you remember about Marissa?" she prompts slowly. "I want you to think about the last time you saw her."

_Patient responds positively to encouragement from his adoptive mother_.

He closes his eyes and furrows his brow.

"Fire."

Mrs. Cohen's hands tighten around her purse, but she says nothing.

"Heat. Dust. Fire." He opens his eyes after a second. "She's dead." Mrs. Cohen says nothing. "Can I talk to Taylor again?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Mrs. Cohen says slowly, frowning. "She's… a little upset right now."

"Because I can't remember her."

_Patient shows signs of increasing and persistent guilt._

"She understands," Mrs. Cohen soothes, finally breaking and leaning forward to take the patient's hand. What is with these people and not following my directions? "But with the pregnancy, her hormones are a little off…"

"Did I marry her cause I got her pregnant?"

Mrs. Cohen sighs and stands up with a sad smile. "I really don't think you're ready to see her again. How about I send Summer in?" The patient nods and Mrs. Cohen leaves the room.

* * *

A small, dark-haired girl enters. This would be the other Mrs. Cohen.

"Atwood," she sits on the chair, looking like she can't decide whether to be relieved or angry. She must have a personal attachment with both Mr. and Mrs. Atwood.

"Roberts," he shoots back. Roberts?

"You haven't called me that in a while," she tells him, looking thoughtful.

"Right," he says slowly. "You and Seth are married now."

_Patient seems to have trouble logging recent revelations in his head._

"I know, tragic, right?"

"And I have a little sister," he reconfirms and she nods. "And I'm married to Taylor Townsend."

"She's a good person," the girl seems to get defensive, crossing her arms, eyes narrowing. I clear my throat, which works and she remembers she's supposed to keep the patient from becoming overly stressed. "She loves you. You love her."

"Marissa's dead."

"Yeah."

There's silence. Mrs. Cohen seems to have had a personal attachment to this_ Marissa_ girl as well.

"Linda." The patient looks up, to see if there's any recognition in his sister-in-law's eyes. There's nothing. "She has black hair."

"Ok."

"She likes _Days of Our Lives_," he goes on slowly. "She watches it in the office when she's not supposed to."

"Your secretary," the girl nods, looking relieved.

"I feel bad."

"Why?"

The Cohen girl has a directness that seems to make him think. Perhaps if she and her husband were to interact with the patient at the same time, we could make further progress.

"Cause Taylor's upset cause I can't remember her. I'm trying," he sounds upset. "The last thing I remember about her is her in the Sorbonne sweatshirt at the bonfire."

"God," the Cohen girl breathes, looking a little shocked. It seems the other Cohen family members hadn't clued her in to the extent of his memory loss. "Kirsten's wrong. I think you should talk to her again."

"Ok."

_Patient becomes nervous under pressure_.

* * *

Mrs. Atwood enters again, sitting in the chair. Her eyes are red, which the patient notices and hangs his head. "You still don't remember me?"

"Sorry."

The patient's wife looks thoughtful for a second before responding. "It's ok. You'll remember me eventually." Mr. Atwood looks startled and I clear my throat to take her off that track. "Don't give me that," she waves her hand dismissively at me before turning to her husband. "I'm going to make sure you remember me."

The patient's wife is forceful and barring physically removing her from the room, there's little I can do that won't upset the patient.

"I promise I'll try," the patient offers. His wife nods, then gestures at him to try. He sighs and closes his eyes.

She sits back and waits.

"Ours was inside," he says after a while and opens his eyes to find her with raised eyebrows. "Seth's was outside. Ours was inside."

"Our wedding," she nods, hope making her sit up straighter.

"You can't stand hot peppers."

"Not since the pizza debacle of '07."

I'm not quite sure what a 'pizza debacle' is, but Mrs. Atwood smiles. Mr. Atwood does not seem to be able to recall this particular event.

"Vanilla." Mrs. Atwood waits for him to continue. It seems she does not know what the word is in reference to. "You smelled like vanilla," he speaks slowly again. He closes his eyes. "You smelled like vanilla and you were wearing jeans and a black shirt. Your luggage was pink. You said it helped you find them in baggage claim."

"When I left for the Sorbonne," she says softly and leans forward.

"We were eating Mexican," he continues and her face flickers in confusion. Apparently eating Mexican food has nothing to do with the airport. "You threw up. We thought it was food poisoning at first."

"The day we found out I was pregnant," she smiles. He nods.

"My head hurts."

"Sorry," Mrs. Atwood stands up, this time managing it on her own. "Rest now. I'll come by tomorrow as early as I can." He nods and leans back into the bed.

_Patient may have pushed himself too far._

* * *

I follow her out of the room and send in a nurse to make sure he falls asleep.

"Go figure Atwood would get hurt playing the hero," the younger Mrs. Cohen is ranting, pacing.

"What was he doing there anyway?" the younger Mr. Cohen asks his parents.

"He was at a job site," Mrs. Atwood is the one to respond. "He told me about it. He had to go oversee the construction, because the guy who normally did it was sick."

"I swear," the older Mr. Cohen starts with a shake of his head as they all gather their things, "sometimes I think he's some sort of guardian angel."

"He _does_ always seem to be in the right place at the right time," the blonde Mrs. Cohen remarks with a smile.

I don't find the humor in this, but they leave, all smiling. I'm not quite sure what's so funny about Mr. Atwood pushing a construction worker out of the way of a falling support beam.

I shake my head and open his file to study his record.

_Patient has a long history of hospital visits…_

_

* * *

_

review


	7. Dusty

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Brookescott134

_Prompt: Loose curls, hot pink nail polish and a moody road trip_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Wasted' by Pinback _

_Notes: Um… this started off in a completely different direction. It just kinda… went out of control and off onto a really random tangent. I take no responsibility for this. Blame sugar._

* * *

"**Dusty"**

Endless desert rolled by the windows, sparsely broken by cacti and rocks. It was hot, dusty, boring. It was everything you'd think a Texas highway would be, but without any other cars.

He was pretty sure they weren't actually on the highway anymore, but Seth wouldn't listen to him.

Stupid broken GPS.

Stupid Seth.

Stupid road trip.

He didn't understand why they had to _drive_ to Dallas, or even why he had to go in the first place. This was Seth's thing.

And so far, it was a really sucky way to start summer vacation.

But Summer was in Dallas – or somewhere near there – protesting oil or something like that. He couldn't keep track of her protests, but for some reason _oil_ was in his head. Who knows, maybe it was actually cattle she was here to protect. He'd ask Seth, but right now, they weren't on speaking terms.

Their silence had started last night, when the motel they'd found had only had one room. Seth had already been getting on his last nerve – what with missing their exit and getting them lost. Sharing a room with him had pushed them both over the top, and they'd stopped talking sometime around eleven that night. It was now nine-thirty in the morning, and Ryan was sure this was the longest Seth had ever gone without talking.

Thank God they had music, otherwise the silence would be _really_ awkward.

* * *

It took eleven hours and thirty-six minutes for Seth to break.

"I'm hungry."

"We ate all our sandwiches yesterday," he monotoned back. Truth be told, he was hungry, too, but he didn't want to give Seth the satisfaction. "Can you just call Summer and ask for directions?"

"We're not lost."

He sighed, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. "Have you seen another car in the last six hours? We're lost."

* * *

"You boys want anythin' else?" the waitress asked, popping her gum and staring at them.

"No, thanks," he answered for them both, because Seth was too busy shoving waffles into his mouth.

"See," the dark-haired boy said eventually around his mouthful of food, "we're not lost. You can't be lost if you can find decent waffles."

Ryan wasn't so sure, because he still had no idea where they were. He'd never heard of the town they were in and when they'd pulled into the diner, people walking by had made a big deal about the Rover and its California license plates. They'd already been asked six different times if they knew anyone famous. Because apparently living in California meant you were part of the movie business.

They ate in relative silence, and he had to admit that the waffles _were_ good. Maybe he'd distract Seth somehow and find someone to give him directions to Dallas. Someone here had to know.

* * *

"People are staring at us," Seth whispered, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around nervously. Ryan just shrugged; he was used to getting the _he's an outsider_ looks.

"Let's get some food for the road," he suggested pointing at a market – it was too small to be called a grocery store.

Inside, a man with missing teeth stood behind the counter while a kid of about sixteen stacked corn into a crate. A girl with bright pink nails swept dirt from one section of the floor to another, singing some vague early-nineties song that he couldn't quite remember. When she finally noticed them, her eyes lit up.

"Oh!" she propped the broom up against the counter and skipped over to them, her hair bouncing behind her. "You two're the movie stars, right?"

"Um," Seth shot him a look, but he didn't know what to say.

"I heard Paulette talkin' bout you. She says to me, 'Cheyenne, two boys just pulled up in the most expensive car I ever seen, and they're wearin' expensive clothes and talkin' on cell phones like movie stars'." She paused for a breath, smile faltering a little as she looked them over. "But I don't think I ever seen you in any movie, and I've seen every movie there is."

"Cheyenne here wants to be a movie star," the toothless man behind the counter explained, rolling his eyes. "I keep tellin' her she needs to get bigger boobs and loose the hair if she wants to be famous."

"Lemme alone, Hal," she shot back, but her hand went to her hair and she tried to pat it down. It didn't really work, because there was so much curl, it wouldn't go anywhere close to laying flat. "So have I seen you in anything?"

Ryan opened his mouth to protest – they were just college kids – but Seth interrupted.

"Yeah. Actually, you haven't seen me, I'm just a script-writer. But surely you recognize Russell Crowe here?" He clapped his hand on Ryan's shoulder and ignored the glare.

"Russell Crowe?" the girl asked, face scrunching up as she took a closer look at Ryan. "Oh my gosh, I never woulda recognized you!"

"I'm…"

"You look a _lot_ younger than you do in the movies," she continued, ignoring his protest. "Not that I'm callin' you old or anythin', it's just maybe the camera adds ten years. Like how they say the camera adds ten pounds? I think I'd be needin' to lose ten pounds then, if I wanna be a star and all."

"Look," Ryan started, trying to interrupt the girl.

"Come on, Russell," Seth grinned, pulling at his arm. "We need to stock up for the trip. We're going to a set in Dallas," he explained to the girl as they moved through the store. She trailed after them, eyes wide.

"For a movie?"

"Uh huh," Seth nodded as he followed Ryan down the aisle. "Big movie, it's coming out next year. We can't give you the details, though, because we're under contract."

"Right, right," she agreed, nodding hastily, eyes glazing over at the thought. "I can't believe Russell Crowe's in my daddy's store. Kimmy and Laura are _never_ gonna believe this. And you write movies? You think you could get me in?"

"I don't know, it's very competitive," Seth sighed, shaking his head. Ryan glared.

"Seth," Ryan interrupted, voice low and warning.

"Yes, Russell?"

Ryan was about to retaliate when Seth's cell went off. The boy sighed and dug it out of his pocket, flipping it open. "Hey, Summer," he answered, moving over to the shelf and poking at a bag of bread. "Yeah, we're still about two hours away… we kinda got sidetracked… no we're just stocking up and we'll be there soon. No, it's totally not my fault we're late… no… look, I'll see you soon, and… ok… yeah, I lo-" he cut off his sentence and sighed, hanging up. "She's not happy."

"Who's Summer?" Cheyenne cut in, tilting her head.

"My girlfriend," Seth shoved his cell back in his pocket.

"She famous, too?"

"She's in magazines and newspapers all the time," he answered and she gasped in wonder. Ryan rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to tell the girl that Summer was in newspapers a lot for getting arrested at protests and rallies.

"Are you datin' anyone?" she turned to him, and tilted her head again. "None of the magazines I read talk much about you, so I haven't heard nothin'."

"Yeah," Seth answered, grinning recklessly as Ryan glared. "He's dating a model."

"Seth…"

"She lives in France."

"Wow," Cheyenne breathed. "France's so fancy! I always wanted to go, but the closest I ever came to it was Paris, Texas."

"I have no doubt you'll get to France one day," Seth soothed, apparently noticing his affect on the girl for the first time, the way he was getting her hopes up. "We should get our food and head out. We don't wanna be late."

"Right, right. I shouldn't be talkin' to you, holdin' you up. I should be sweepin'." She shook her head in disbelief one last time before skipping back over to her broom, curls bouncing behind her.

"Russell _fucking_ Crowe?" Ryan hissed once she was out of hearing range. Seth snorted in laughter and grabbed a bag of pretzels off the shelf. "And what's with the French model girlfriend?"

"Well," Seth shrugged. "You _do_ kind of have a French girlfriend. And she _does_ send you half-naked pictures a lot…"

"What?" Ryan flushed red as Seth grinned.

"Yeah, I opened your email by mistake last Chrismukkah. _That_ was something I'll never get out of my head…"

"I hate you."

"You love me."

Ryan glared one last time as they took the food up to the counter and paid.

Seth grinned as they walked outside, where the town's residents pointed and stared.

They got into the Rover and pulled out.

"It's fun being movie stars," he admitted once they were back on the road.

"I'm telling Summer you did that," Ryan grumbled, shifting in his seat and staring out the window. He ignored Seth's fearful protests and focused instead on getting to Dallas and getting a hotel room with air conditioning. And internet access.

Outside the sun was high overhead and painfully bright and the ground was barren and dusty and he decided this was the worst road trip ever.

_

* * *

_

review


	8. Unexpected

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: ORy

_Prompt: First_

_Rating: M_

_Music: 'Hideaway' by Rock Kills Kid, off the album 'Are You Nervous?'_

_Notes: This went a lot longer and a lot darker than I originally intended it to be. ORy, I doubt this was what you wanted, but…_

* * *

"**Unexpected"**

The first time I saw Ryan Atwood, it was unexpected.

New kids weren't common in Newport, what with the selective nature of the inhabitants and their propensity for scaring off potential – unwanted – buyers. But sophomore year there was – not one – but _two_ new kids. Anna Stern from Pittsburg and Ryan Atwood from Chino. Yes. His arrival had been _quite_ unexpected.

The first time I talked to Ryan Atwood, I hadn't seen it coming.

We'd been in Algebra. I was dutifully paying attention – like always – and everyone else was goofing off – like always. Ms. Feinberg got fed up and assigned us a set of problems. Which I actually preferred, because I tend to learn better on my own. Halfway through, I'd felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around to face my attacker. "Did you get x equals three-halves for number eleven?" he whispered, eyes still on his paper. "Yes," I whispered back. No one had ever asked me a question during class before.

The first time Ryan Atwood helped me, it was surprising.

Mostly because I'd been looking for Seth with the whole _dear God, save me from my horrible French husband_ debacle. Seth had gone to Rhode Island, though - good for him, fighting for his relationship - which totally ruined my plans. Ryan turned me down at first, most likely because I'm insane. But he came through in the end, and that's what startled me, because we were barely friends. Why would he help me?

The first time I kissed Ryan Atwood, it was like fireworks, like Dorothy landing in Oz.

Everything popped into Technicolor. Sounds were muffled, but my eyes and nerve endings went into overdrive. I could feel every inch of him pressed against me, his lips dominating mine, his hands in my hair. And when I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was blue – the brightest blue I'd ever seen in my life.

The first time I fought with Ryan Atwood, it was _really_ unexpected.

I'd gone over expecting to be invited for Chrismukkah. Instead I got a monosyllabic Ryan and a bunch of evasive non-answers. I was confused – and highly annoyed – because hadn't we spent a good half hour in the closet making out? If that's not a green light that he liked me, then what is? So I pushed a little too hard, and we fell off that damn ladder. I guess you could say our first coma was unexpected as well.

The first time I broke up with Ryan Atwood, it was heartbreaking.

I'm not sure to this day _why_ I did it, but I knew that this was the longest I'd ever gone without jumping into bed with a guy. I'd been planning for New Year's, but Summer's whole pregnancy thing botched that idea. And then afterwards, things just kept getting in the way – like his dad drama and then that stupid French bastard showing up and that _horrible_ breaking up idea. I don't know why I broke up with him – still don't – and I regretted it immediately. I stalked him, pretended to ignore him, basically gave him every reason never to talk to me again. But he came into my room, cell phone in hand, and the fact that he wasn't _freaked the hell out_ by my stalking tendencies made me realize how big of an idiot I was.

The first time I slept with Ryan Atwood, it was mind-blowing.

We'd just gotten back together. We'd gone to Kirsten's birthday party and everything had been right in the world. He took me home after the party and he showed me how wrong I was in the assumption that Henri-Michel was good in bed. I was _very_ wrong. Ryan Atwood redefined 'amazing'. Of course, he didn't tell me Kirsten was pregnant until afterwards – I guess he didn't want a repeat of the Summer/Seth/pregnancy scare.

The first time I told Ryan Atwood I loved him, I wasn't sure it had happened.

Because I was drunk. He said it first, which was the good part, at least I didn't blurt it out without provocation. But still, I was drunk and he said it and I said it and it was wonderful. Well, not the hangover the next day, but still. And then that horrifying birthday party and the dictionary and the him pretty much taking back his "I love you." That kinda sucked.

The first time I left Ryan Atwood for France, it was unplanned.

Things had been rough after the earthquake. He shut down a little. He didn't talk like he used to, and even though the Cohens assured me that was how he usually was, it wasn't the same. I couldn't read him anymore. All he wanted from me was sex – we did it constantly and it seemed like he was just trying to forget, or something. Forget that his first real home had been ruined; forget that he had to go to college soon; forget that he would be losing his best friends to other parts of the country. So I left, because I couldn't let him use me as some sort of safety blanket.

The first time I saw Ryan Atwood when I came back, it was like a shock to the system.

He was so _hot_, I couldn't believe I had forgotten that. He was gorgeous and monosyllabic and… completely uncaring that I was there. That little airport debacle was one of the most painful experiences of my life. He just… walked away from me as I remembered how much I loved him.

The first time I tried a long-distance relationship with Ryan Atwood, it didn't work out.

We _did_ try – I don't care what Seth and Summer say. We talked every night, we had phone sex, we sent dirty emails. It just didn't work. He sucked at talking, especially on the phone, and while the phone sex was nice and all, it didn't compare. It definitely didn't compare to the feel of a warm body next to yours. And I guess my voice didn't compare to the way _she_ kissed him; the way _her_ warm body felt next to his.

The first time I got dumped by Ryan Atwood, I was angry.

I mean, really? An email? Who breaks up with their girlfriend of ten months – give or take a few break-ups – in an email? I understand he sucks at confrontation, but _come on_. And the fact that it was an email hadn't been the worst part of it. Even the break-up hadn't been the worst part. The worst part, hands down, had to be the fact that he had found _someone else_. Someone who was close by. Someone who could touch him.

The first time I slept with someone post-Ryan Atwood, I was drunk.

It was three nights after I'd gotten his short, cold – and honestly, slightly rude – email. The party was high-class, just like every other one here. Everyone was too 'cultured' to throw huge frat parties with stale beer and pounding hip-hop. No, this one had fine wine and jazz music. It didn't stop me from getting plastered, though, and going home with the complete opposite of Ryan Atwood. Dark, tall, skinny, a poet with glasses and a sweater. He was shitty in bed, although maybe that was the alcohol talking.

The first time I told Ryan Atwood I was pregnant, I threw up.

On him. That was a horrible Chrismukkah break. I'd flown out for Summer – and to see if my mom was still in non-bitch mode – and the Cohens had invited me over, despite the break-up. Ryan had his _new_ girlfriend on his arm – she was blonde, go figure. Her skirt was too slutty for Chrismukkah and she had a tattoo on her lower back. And of course Ryan was being Ryan – silent and broody. We were in the kitchen and he was acting like _he_ was the victim here – _poor him_, it was _so_ hard having a girlfriend in another country. Like, hello? It was his fault in the first place. I _offered_ to stay. I was so pissed off, I told him my big news – which I'd been saving for Summer's ears only, because I wasn't quite _happy_ with the situation. I was pregnant – yes, in my drunken state, apparently I forgot all about condoms. I managed to blurt this out in front of _everyone_ and then I threw up on his shoes.

The first time I hit Ryan Atwood, I was overwhelmed.

He wouldn't leave me the hell alone. Summer mentioned over the phone that he dumped the skank, but that didn't really matter. And he wouldn't stop calling, even when I stopped answering. He kept telling me he wanted to _help -_ he wanted to help with the baby. He didn't believe me when I told him I had a miscarriage – stress, apparently, will do that to a person. It was too much, because even though I _knew_ the last thing I needed was a kid in my first year of college, I still felt the loss. He flew to Paris, because he thought I lied to him – probably because of the whole Theresa thing. I asked him if he wanted to see the bloody sheets as proof – which was an exaggeration; obviously they'd been cleaned since then. He said he was sorry and I slapped him across the face and told him to stay the hell away from me. I didn't need to be his charity case.

The first time Ryan Atwood proposed to me, I was stunned.

Into actual silence. It had been a year since I'd last seen him. I was doing ok, getting by. I kept to myself, wore baggy clothes and my hair in a sloppy ponytail so no guy would want to talk to me. The last thing I needed was sex. I could still feel the way my gut had twisted when I lost the baby. He showed up out of the blue and asked if we could talk. I took him to a restaurant, because I didn't want to be alone with him. He ate nervously and I kept waiting for his reason for coming here. I think the way I was dressed – jeans and an oversized sweatshirt – threw him off a little. He wasn't used to me being… less than perfect. It didn't stop him, though, from pulling out the ring and telling me he still loved me. It didn't stop him from telling me he never wanted to let me get away again, that he'd been an ass, an idiot, so monumentally stupid to break up with me.

The first time I stole from Ryan Atwood, it was a mistake.

He took my hand and put the ring on my finger while I stayed silent. He kissed my palm and begged me to answer. I guess he got my answer when I stood up, grabbed my purse, and left him there. It wasn't until after I stopped throwing up that I realized I still had the ring on my finger, and when I tried to go back to the restaurant to find him and give it back, he'd already left. I found out later, from Summer, that he hadn't even hung around, he'd just left for the airport and flew back to California.

The first time Ryan Atwood's parents called me, I was angry.

I know it was selfish of me to be angry, but I couldn't help it. Almost three years and they hadn't called me once. Even my Chrismukkah invitations came through Summer, so I think I was a little hurt that what finally got them to call me in France was their precious son being hurt. They wanted to know what happened – why he wasn't calling as often as he used to, why he started getting into fights again, why – when he came home for the weekend to visit – he brought a case of beer and drank it all in one night. I didn't have any satisfactory answers for them. It wasn't my place to tell them.

The first time I threw a vase at Ryan Atwood, I was shaking uncontrollably.

I came back to California to stay with my mom for spring break and I decided to take care of the little stealing problem while I was there. I mean, I'd had that stupid ring in my desk drawer for close to six months. So I flew to Berkeley for the weekend and knocked on the Cohen's door. Kirsten had been surprised, but she let me in and explained that Ryan had an apartment on campus now. She gave me the address warily and I left. When he opened the door to his apartment, I was shocked. He was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, he hadn't shaved in a while and he smelled overwhelmingly of alcohol and stale cigarettes. I pushed my way past him to find his apartment full of crap. It wasn't like him to be messy; it wasn't like him to be an ass to his parents and not call for weeks at a time – as Kirsten had mentioned. I told him to stop acting like a baby and I gave him the ring back. He stared at it for a while, then shoved it in his pocket and went to get another beer. I told him this wasn't my fault – how _dare_ he use my rejection as an excuse. This was so far from my fault. He told me I should be happy – I'd ruined his life. Didn't that make me happy? I was so _angry,_ I grabbed a vase off the table – one of the few remaining touches of Kirsten – and threw it at his head. I missed, unfortunately.

The first time I saw Ryan Atwood cry, my heart almost stopped.

It had been three years since I last had sex with him – two and a half since I'd last had it with _anyone_. After the vase incident, he jumped me and I couldn't fight it, because let's face it – it was him. And as much as I liked to deny it, I still loved him. Even if he was being a prick at the time, I still loved him. So I let him kiss me and I had angry, half-drunken sex with him up against the wall of his kitchen. Not the best idea – or the most romantic – but after that, he kind of broke. After I put my feet back on the floor and found I could stand again, he'd dropped his head to my shoulder and I slowly felt him start to shake. It took me almost five minutes to realize he was crying as we stood there, with his hands gripping my waist tightly and pressing me into the wall.

The first time Ryan Atwood told me he loved me and it didn't end in tragedy, I was naked.

I spent three days in his bed; we rarely left unless it was to use the bathroom or order pizza. Or take a shower, but I considered that part of the bed, since we took them together. It was on the third day, as the half-eaten pizza lay between us on the crumpled sheets, that he told me he loved me. He'd only said it twice before – the first time when I was drunk, and the second time when he proposed. I kept waiting for some sort of bomb to drop on us and create drama, but it didn't happen.

The first time I married Ryan Atwood, it was unplanned.

Somehow we'd lasted through the rest of that year in a long-distance relationship and I transferred to Berkeley for my fourth and final year. That summer, we decided to take a trip to Vegas with Seth and Summer. We got a hotel room, and Ryan spent hours letting me know how much he'd missed me. Things were going better this time around and I wasn't leaving again. It was… thrilling. So I guess that's how we ended up at a 24-hour chapel at one in the morning and said our vows in front of some guy pretending to be Jimi Hendrix. He kissed me while two drunk bums clapped from the pews. Kirsten and Sandy had _not_ been amused when we got back and told them.

My entire relationship with Ryan Atwood has been made up of the unexpected – the shocking, the heartbreaking, the drunken mistakes. Everything has been unplanned and totally out of the blue.

So I guess it should come as no surprise that the first time Ryan Atwood got me pregnant, it was an accident.

_

* * *

_

review


	9. Panic

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Angell

_Prompt: Panic_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Paint It Black' by The Rolling Stones, off the album 'Aftermath'_

_Notes: You can count this as a one-shot, or a prequel to 'In Rainbows'. It works either way (hopefully)._

* * *

**"Panic"**

He sits in the seat, eyes closed, hands clenched around the armrests in a death grip that turns his knuckles white.

"Hey, man, you ok?" the passenger next to him asks, sounding unsure, "you look a little green."

"I'm fine," he manages to get out, fighting down the rising nausea as the plane hits turbulence.

* * *

What is he doing here? He shouldn't have come. But then her words ring in his head, and he knows he has to try.

'_I got a job offer. It's in Paris. I think… I think I'm going to stay in France.'_

He looks around at the street signs, none of which he can read, because he doesn't know any French.

How did it come to this? He hadn't seen her in almost nine months; their emails and phone calls had slowly dwindled, real life and the distance getting in the way. They'd barely had a real conversation in two months – instead settling for the basic '_how was your day?'_ – and then she'd told him. She was staying in Paris. He'd told her he thought it was great, what an amazing opportunity.

Then he'd hung up the phone, taken a shower, went to the Cohen's for dinner and in the middle of desert, panic had hit him like a truck. He'd choked on his lemon meringue pie, coughing and sputtering as Kirsten tried to hit his back to dislodge whatever was in his throat. Except he hadn't been choking on the food, it had been the knowledge that he'd never see her again.

All through college, they'd never put a name on their relationship. Every time she came back from France during vacation, they just let things run its course, so when she decided to stay in Paris, it had nothing to do with him, because they weren't a couple. She'd made her decision as a single woman, graduating from college and finding her way in the world.

Now, looking around helplessly at the foreign signs, he wishes he could go back four years ago and hit himself over the head; tell himself to get a clue and get over his fear of commitment. Because if he _had_, maybe she wouldn't be staying in Paris.

"Excusez-moi," he asks a street vendor in broken French. The man looks at him disdainfully, but he ignores that, his panic driving him on relentlessly. He holds up a piece of paper with her address written on it. The man begins to ramble and he doesn't know any of the words coming out of the man's mouth, but he sees where the man points and mumbles what he thinks is '_thank you'_ before heading in that direction.

He knows he must look calm on the outside. He's very good at hiding all of his emotions, but inside, his heart, his head, his blood are all pounding wildly. He doesn't know _why_ he needs to rush, but he _has_ to get to her before it's too late. Too late for what, he's not sure and for all he knows, it's already too late, but he can't not try. So when he sees a sign that looks exactly like what's written on the scrap of paper, his heart leaps into his throat.

He goes in the revolving door, making his way for the elevator on the other end of the lobby, the shining metal doors calling out to him.

"Bonjour," a voice calls to him, and a man steps in his way. "Ce qui peut je faire pour vous?"

What? He gets '_bonjour'_ and '_vous'_, but that's about it - and '_Hello, you'_ probably _isn't_ what the guy's saying.

"Um," he tries to think back to the times she had tried to teach him French, grasping at any phrase his mind can remember. "Parlez vous anglais?" The man shakes his head and he can see his chances slipping away, because the man seems to think he's going to make trouble. He gestures towards the elevator behind the man, desperation breaking through his cool exterior, "s'il vous plait?"

The man shakes his head, folding his arms over his chest, "l'hôtel est pour des invités seulement."

He has no idea what that means, but the look in the man's eyes is quite clear. "S'il vous plait," he tries again, knowing his accent is horrible, but he doesn't care. "Taylor Townsend?"

"Vous voulez voir Mlle Townsend?" the man quirks an eyebrow and his hopes rise painfully, heart clutching in his chest. "Sans son invitation, vous ne pouvez pas entrer." That doesn't sound good, he thinks, as the man looks behind him at the exit.

"Look," he slips back into English in his desperation. "I need to talk to her, please, you have to let me in."

"Je vais apporter la securite," the man says and the word '_securite'_ is close enough to English for him to get the gist.

"Please," he begins lamely, his heart still choking him, making his blood pulse forcefully in his head. "Just let…"

"Ryan?" Her voice cuts through his sentence, through his rising panic, and he turns to see her standing in front of the elevators. "What are you doing here?" She looks around in confusion, as if his reason for being in France would be standing next to him. He tries to tell her that he misses her, that he wants her to leave France, that he loves her, but his heart is still lodged in his throat and he can't get the words out.

"Cet homme est…" the man in front of him begins, but he doesn't care anymore. Pushing his way past the Frenchman, he strides over to her, grabbing her shoulders and crashing his lips to hers.

* * *

"So why are you here?" she murmurs, rolling onto her side and tracing a finger over the lines of his stomach. He knows nothing he says is going to sound any less pathetic than the truth, so he settles for that.

"I panicked," he whispers, watching her face. She looks up at him with those eyes and he can't help but start talking again – he forgot about that little effect she has on him. "I don't want you to stay in Paris," he continues on, voice weak because he's not used to putting himself out there like this. "I had to tell you…" He can't say the rest – that he still loves her, that he still needs her – but he knows she knows.

She always knows.

She sighs wearily, sitting up and getting out of the bed. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to keep down the rising horror. She pulls on a sweatshirt, yanking open the closet door.

"You couldn't have just called?" she asks finally, standing on the tips of her toes and searching around for something.

"Um." He could've, _if_ the thought had occurred to him. It hadn't, though. _Calling_ would have saved him the horrific flight out. It would have saved him from a face-to-face rejection.

"Of _course_ you couldn't call," she keeps talking, pulling a suitcase down from the closet shelf. It lands on the end of the bed and he moves his feet away from it. He knows the hotel is a transitional stay for her – from her college dorm to her permanent flat. _Permanent_. "Calling would be easy," she continues, shaking her head and walking back to the closet.

He watches her gather her clothes and fold them, placing them neatly in the suitcase, according to type and color and he wonders why she has to do this _now_ – in front of him. He doesn't want to watch her pack up, watch her move on.

"When do you move to your new place?" he asks sullenly, staring at the crumpled white sheets.

"I was supposed to move in Tuesday," she tells him, rolling a pair of socks into a tight ball and placing it in.

"Oh," he manages to get out, before his brain kicks in. "Wait, '_supposed to'_? You're…"

"Coming home?" she finishes for him, looking up from her suitcase. She doesn't smile, she doesn't look angry. She just looks… accepting. "Yeah."

"Your job," he argues, somehow getting the words out of his throat. Blood starts to pound in his ears again, his hands grip the sheets.

"Why did you come here, Ryan?" she asks, blowing the bangs out of her face in frustration. "Don't you _want_ me to come home?"

"Yeah, but…" he knows he's being an idiot. He knows he should just shut the hell up and thank whatever god that she's lowering herself to be with him. But he always did have those pesky morals…

"But nothing," she shrugs. "I don't care about the job."

"Then why'd you take it?" He really should just learn to shut the hell up.

"Because I didn't want to go back home if I wasn't with you," she meets his eyes, letting him know that he's an idiot.

"I love you." It's the first time he's said it in four years – it's the fifth time overall. He must be the biggest idiot in the entire world.

"Good," she nods. "Cause you're stuck with me now."

He moves to the end of the bed and grabs her wrist, pulling her back on the mattress with him.

"Thank God," he murmurs before pressing his lips to hers.

_

* * *

_

review


	10. Baby

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Spuffyshipper

_Prompt: Ryan holds Sophie for the first time_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'On a Saturday' by Jacob Golden, off the album 'Revenge Songs'_

_Notes: I really didn't want to do another one for you (no offense), because I haven't done other people's prompts yet, but this one just… I dunno. I just wrote it and it was fun and I love it too much not to post it. So I'm really, really sorry if you've given me a prompt and I haven't gotten to it yet. I promise I will eventually! Also, this doesn't count as 'pregnancy', for those of you keeping track. I'm pretending like I haven't made someone pregnant in a lot of these..._

* * *

"**Baby"**

"You do it."

"Why me?"

"Because."

"Because? That's a stupid reason."

"Fine. Because you're shorter and therefore, there's less distance to the ground."

"No. You do it. You're blood-related. I'm just adopted."

"But you're good at sports. You won't drop it."

"She's not an 'it', Seth and she's not a football either. She's your little sister. You hold her."

"Would one of you just take her?" Patrick cuts in with a sigh, holding out the baby swathed in pink blankets. The two boys stare in horror at the bundle. "I _do_ have other things to attend to."

"I'm gonna drop her," Seth whispers again in despair. "You know how I drop things. You do it."

"Where's Sandy?" Ryan responds, eyes flicking to the door, then to Kirsten, asleep in the bed. Sandy said he'd be right back in a minute…

"Probably calling family and friends," Patrick ventures a guess as his gaze goes to the wet spot on the floor that Todd's dutifully still cleaning up. "Could one of you just take her?"

"I'll drop her," Seth continues on, like he's in another world. "I'll drop her and Summer'll realize she doesn't love me and she'll leave me, because I'm a _baby-dropper_. Ryan, what girl wants to date a _baby-dropper?_"

"I'll take her," Ryan decides suddenly, feeling his heart leap in his chest wildly. Seth lets out a huge sigh of relief as Patrick slowly transfers the sleeping infant into Ryan's arms. When the shift's complete, he heaves a sigh and leaves the room. "Oh my God," Ryan whispers fearfully. "Oh my God, oh my God."

"What? Is she dead? Is she breathing?" Seth moves close, glancing over his brother's shoulder to get a view of his newborn sister.

"She's fine," Ryan assures, never taking his eyes off her. "She's just… beautiful."

Silence falls over the room as they stare at her.

Sophie Rose Cohen.

"Let me hold her." Seth's voice is soft – shockingly; Ryan's sure he's never heard his brother's voice like that.

"No."

"I wanna hold her," he protests, reaching out for the bundle.

"No," Ryan moves away, still staring down at her.

"I'm her brother, too!"

"You'll drop her."

"No, I won't."

Ryan doesn't answer. Instead, he stands near the window and lets the sun trickle through and make his little sister glow.

"You had your turn, it's mine now."

"Seth, shut up."

"You shut up."

"No, you."

"Oh my God," Sandy's voice comes from the doorway, sounding upset and ashamed. "It's like I have three babies instead of one."

"Ryan won't let me hold her!" Seth accuses, glowering and moving closer to his father.

"He'll drop her," Ryan protests as Seth does his best kicked puppy look.

"I'll take her," Sandy rolls his eyes and moves forward. "Both of you are on probation until you learn to get along."

* * *

"Alright, Kid Chino, gimme your best shot."

Seth stands, feet spread apart, hands out. Ryan rolls his eyes and decides to take it easy on the boy – they're family, after all. So instead of his normal throw, he underhands the ball at the taller boy. And – as predicted – Seth makes a fumbling attempt to catch, only to send the thing flying into a bush.

"Ok, that wasn't fair," the dark-haired boy grumbles, glaring.

"Doesn't matter. You're still not allowed to hold her," Sandy calls from the porch and Kirsten starts to laugh.

"It's not fair!" he whines. "Ryan didn't get a test before he held her."

"Ryan," Kirsten starts, suppressing a smile, "isn't known for dropping things and breaking them."

* * *

"She's so… wow," Taylor breathes, standing over Kirsten with Summer next to her.

"She looks just like you," Summer adds, pointing at the blonde hair. Kirsten smiles. "Can we hold her?"

"No," Seth mutters from across the room. "No one except mom and dad and _special_ _Ryan_ get to hold her."

"You can wait until we're less paranoid," Sandy explains, "or you can take the test."

"There's a test?"

"Oh, there's a test," Seth cuts in, laughing bitterly.

"I'll take the test," Taylor shrugs.

"You don't even know what it is," Summer protests, but gets another shrug in return. Then she thinks for a second and nods. "I'll take it, too."

"Alright," Sandy moves forward, producing a bright orange and purple Nerf ball from behind his back. "Taylor, you volunteered first."

Kirsten, Ryan, Seth and Summer watch as Taylor looks confused and Sandy determined. He pitches the ball fast, without any warning, and Taylor lets out a squeak of surprise and closes her eyes.

"She's good," Sandy announces and she opens her eyes to see she caught the ball.

"Yay!" She rushes over to Kirsten and tosses the ball to Seth, not even noticing when it bounces off the boy's head. Kirsten just smiles as she hands Sophie over. "Oh, she's so tiny," she whispers when Sophie's safely in her arms.

"Ok, test me now," Summer decides, fisting her hands in her skirt and pulling it up slightly so the ends won't drag in the dirt. She moves out to the grass and waits for Sandy to retrieve the ball. The second he gets it in his hands, he throws it at her – while she's off her guard. Her eyes narrow and she snatches the ball out of the air, smirking triumphantly when Sandy nods. "Alright, Townsend. My turn."

"No fair!" Taylor protests, twisting her body away from Summer.

"Townsend, hand the baby over or prepare to be hurt."

* * *

"Even _The Bullit_ gets to hold her?" Seth asks, shock and annoyance radiating off him. "I'm her brother! Her _blood_ brother," he adds with a glare in Ryan's direction.

"He caught the ball," Kirsten shrugs, keeping her eyes on Bullit – just in case.

"She's a beauty. Not that I'd be expectin' any less from Blondie," Bullit laughs, but manages to keep his voice low enough not to wake the baby in his arms.

"My turn!" Kaitlin announces triumphantly, coming into the room and holding the Nerf ball up. Sandy follows her in and shrugs at his wife. Off in the corner, Seth's mouth drops open.

"What? No!"

"Hand her over."

"Alright, squirt," Bullit laughs, shaking his head.

"Not cool," Seth grumbles from the corner, arms folded over his chest. Summer rolls her eyes.

"She's all wrinkly," Kaitlin decides, brow furrowing as she stares down at the bundle in her arms.

"Ok, she just insulted Sophie," Seth points, looking offended. "She doesn't get to hold her anymore."

"Seth's right," Ryan frowns, moving forward and prying his sister from Kaitlin.

"Whatev," Kaitlin rolls her eyes. "I'm going to find my mom." Bullit shakes his head and follows her out, muttering something about nailing Jell-o to a wall.

"Let me hold her," Seth moves forward, but stops when Sandy and Ryan glare at him.

"You can take the test again," Sandy offers, waving the Nerf ball at his son. Seth pouts but moves out toward the back door.

"This should be fun," Summer sighs, following them out.

Ryan stands and watches his sister while Taylor stands by the window and Kirsten looks on.

"I think I'm going to go lay down," she smiles and Taylor moves over to help her up.

Ryan barely pays attention as they leave the room, Taylor scolding the older woman about moving too quickly because she _just_ had a baby. Instead he stares down at his sister, the perfection in his arms. He's never been an older brother. He's been a younger brother, and he's been an adoptive brother, but he's never been an _older_ brother. He hopes he'll do a better job than his did.

"Oh!" Seth's voice sounds from somewhere behind him and he turns to watch his brother come in, arms in the air and a triumphant look on his face. "Look who caught the ball!" Seth gloats.

"After you tripped and knocked over that potted plant," Sandy points out, following his son with a skeptical look.

"I still caught it. The rules say nothing about breaking pottery. You only said I had to _catch_ it, not that I couldn't leave a path of destruction in the process. Now," he turns to Ryan and holds out his arms. "Hand her over."

Ryan quirks an eyebrow at Sandy, who sighs and nods. At the green light, he moves warily over to Seth and transfers the sleeping girl into his arms.

"Holy Moses," Seth breathes, eyes wide. "Take her back. I'm gonna drop her."

Ryan and Sandy both rush forward.

_

* * *

_

review


	11. Popular

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: xJamey

_Prompt: Summer/Marissa friendship_

_Rating: K_

_Music: 'In One Ear and Out the Other' by Fujiya & Miyagi, off the album 'Transparent Things'_

_Notes: And now, for something completely different…_

* * *

"**Popular"**

"Hey."

The greeting made her look up from her desk at the girl standing there – hands on her hips, eyebrow quirked, eyeing her down. She put down her pencil, if only to hide the nervous shaking.

Marissa Cooper was hands down the prettiest girl in school. And the most popular, but that went without saying. She owned this place, along with her friends Holly, Luke and Chip.

"Hi," she greeted back shyly, turning in her seat to face her.

She'd been here for a month. She and daddy moved here after mom died, but she hadn't made any friends yet. She wanted to see _who_ she should make friends with before she did anything rash and made the wrong move.

Like daddy's new girlfriend said, reputation here was everything.

"I'm Marissa," the other girl introduced, "this is Holly."

"I know. I'm Summer."

Marissa continued to stand over her, running her gaze over her, hands still on her hips and eyebrow still raised. It made Summer nervous – it was an appraising look.

"My mom said I should make friends with you," Marissa explained after a while. "Because your dad's a plastic surgeon and mom likes plastic surgeons."

"Oh," was all Summer could manage, eyes flicking down to the floor.

Yes, being friends with Marissa Cooper and Holly Fischer and Luke Ward and Chip Saunders would be great for her reputation, but she didn't really want to have friends based on daddy's career.

But she also couldn't turn them down – that would be social suicide. She may be in second grade, but even a _first grader_ knew that. If she pissed off Marissa and Holly, she could end up like that loser girl in the corner – the one with glasses that everyone ignored.

"I hate my mom," Marissa continued, expression never changing. "I always do the opposite of what she says."

"Oh." The sinking feeling in her stomach prevented her from saying anything else. She might as well slap on glasses and join that loser girl right now.

"But," Marissa continued again, finally sitting down in the desk chair next to her. "I've been watching you."

"Oh?"

"You dress really pretty," the taller girl nodded with approval. "You have nice hair and you listen to good music."

"You like 'N Sync too?" Summer questioned, picking up her pencil and twirling it nervously. Marissa nodded and Holly did, too – a little reluctantly.

"So you're going to be our new friend," Marissa decided, the look in her eyes demanding no argument. Holly didn't look as happy, but she didn't argue.

Summer had come to realize over the past month that no one argued with Marissa Cooper.

The teacher started talking, but Summer didn't pay attention.

She had friends. And not just any friends – _popular_ friends. _Very_ popular. And she was one of them – although the look on Holly's face and Marissa's tone made it obvious that if she slipped up, she'd be removed.

She wouldn't slip up.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Holly finally spoke when the teacher gave them a break. She got up and took her make-up case with her. Summer realized she'd have to learn how to wear make-up now. And she'd have to convince daddy to let her – he'd told her she wasn't allowed to wear it until middle school.

"I saw you," Marissa turned to her, crossing her arms over her chest. "The other day, when Luke pushed Seth Cohen? You helped him pick up his books. I saw that."

So much for her newfound popularity.

So much for her new friends.

"Oh."

"I'm not going to tell Holly," Marissa shrugged. "She doesn't like you already. But I do, so you're going to be our new friend. Just… if you're gonna do nice things? Do them secretly. Mom always says people need to fear you to have respect for you."

"Ok." Well, her vocabulary was getting a little better, she decided. At least it wasn't another _oh_. "Wait, so you don't care I helped Sam?"

"It's Seth, and no. I tell Luke to stop pushing people all the time – not that he listens to me. But I don't tell Holly I do that. She'll just make fun of me and spread rumors that I like Seth Cohen. Which… ew."

"Yeah," Summer agreed. "He's weird. Who'd ever go out with him?"

Marissa giggled and smiled for the first time and Summer felt herself smile back.

Maybe being popular wasn't as hard as it looked. She'd just have to make sure she stayed away from weirdos like Sam Coin is all…

She couldn't wait to tell daddy she finally made a friend.

_

* * *

_

review


	12. Date

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Keydazy

_Prompt: Sophie's first date_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'Ready for the Floor' by Hot Chip, off the album 'Made In the Dark'_

_Notes: I believe this prompt was inspired by 'Baby' (chapter 10), and really, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Enjoy!_

* * *

"**Date"**

He swallowed thickly and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans as he stood, waiting.

He _had_ rung the bell, right? He remembered it dinging, but no one was answering. Maybe he hadn't rung? Should he do it again? But if he _did_ already ring, he shouldn't do it again. Why wasn't anyone answering?

He was so nervous - stomach twisting, hands shaking - because it was _her_.

She was beautiful – perfect in every way. He still wasn't sure why she had lowered herself to go out with him.

And for her first date. Ever.

It was known school-wide that Sophie Cohen wasn't allowed to date until she was sixteen. It was a rule set down by her parents and unlike the other girls her age, she didn't rebel. If a guy – and there were many – asked her out, she'd politely turn them down.

She'd turned sixteen over the summer and he'd watched the boys fall over her the entire first week back.

But she still turned them down.

Sophie was in his biology class. She sat two rows over and he spent every fifth period sneaking looks at her. He couldn't help it, she was perfect. Blonde curls, blue eyes, porcelain skin. She was easily the most beautiful creature on God's green earth, _and_ she was… nice. She'd agreed to go out with _him_. It had to be some sort of charity, on her part.

Because he had to face it – he was a loser. He wore glasses and read comic books and worshipped Battlestar Galactica. She, on the other hand, was… actually, he couldn't come up with a better word than _perfect_. She could be the most popular girl at school, if she wanted. He still wasn't sure why she didn't take the opportunity. She-

The door opened.

He looked up to see a man – her father? – standing there with a serious expression in place. He swallowed hard again.

"Hi. I'm Jason… is Sophie here?" He felt the heat flood his face when he noticed how high-pitched his voice went. The man just nodded and stepped aside, gesturing for him to come in. Oh God, he may actually die.

"Sophie's getting ready," the man finally spoke, leading him into the kitchen, where – to his horror – there were more people. Two men – he vaguely remembered her talking about her brothers – and a woman. Obviously her mother.

Now he knew where she got her looks from.

"You must be Jason," one of the brothers spoke, leaning against the counter.

He nodded, not sure what to say. The other brother just stood there, arms folded, staring at him. _That_ guy was freaking him out more than the other one and the dad.

"It's nice to meet you Jason," Mrs. Cohen stood and smiled, and he felt himself relax a bit. "Sophie tells us you have biology together."

"Fifth period," he recited, lamely. This seemed to amuse the first brother. Not the second. Or her father. Mrs. Cohen opened her mouth to speak again, but the scary brother spoke up finally.

"Do you have your license, Jason?"

Ok, if he thought he was shaking before, he was _trembling_ now. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Sir?

"How long have you had it?"

"About two months…" That was – apparently – the wrong thing to say, because the scary brother's jaw tightened, eyes hardening.

He was going to pee his pants any minute.

"Dude," the first brother cut in, grinning. "Stop being so intense."

"I heard the doorbell!" a cheerful voice called from the doorway, and he turned toward the new arrival. She was really pretty, too.

But she didn't compare to Sophie.

No one compared to Sophie.

"This is Jason," Mrs. Cohen introduced as the other girl came into the kitchen. She went to stand next to the scary brother, but she shot him a giant smile.

"Hi! I'm Taylor. Sophie'll be right down."

"Summer still up with her?" the first brother asked and the girl – Taylor – nodded.

"So where are you taking her?"

Seriously, his heart felt like it was about to burst.

"Ryan!" Taylor scolded, turning to look at him.

"What?" the scary brother – Ryan – shot back, face breaking from its hard look. Now he just looked… sullen? "It's a valid question."

"But you don't have to go all Godfather on the boy." Taylor turned to him with an apologetic look. "Sorry, he can be a little protective sometimes…" Off to the side, the first brother snorted. Ryan continued to pout as – what he assumed was Ryan's wife – continued to tell him to behave.

"So Jason, are you in any of the clubs at school?" Mrs. Cohen asked, voice low and soothing. He decided that he loved this woman. She was so nice, compared to the brother and Mr. Cohen – who was still standing silently, watching him.

"Um… I'm in the AV club…"

He waited for the normal reaction that accompanied that statement – usually a stifled laugh or a pitying look.

"Cool," the first brother smiled, nodding like he approved. "I knew Sophie wouldn't go for some stupid square-headed jock type."

"Seth has a bad history with water polo players," Taylor explained with a smile.

"They used to pee in my shoes."

He wasn't sure what to make of that, so he said the first thing that came into his head. "One time the JV quarterback stole my clothes during gym, so I had to wear the gym uniform for the rest of the day."

Well, great. Now everyone knew how big of a loser he was. Sure enough, Taylor made a sympathetic noise, and Seth shook his head.

"Jason?"

Oh God.

Please, _please_, do not let Sophie have heard that. Please.

He turned to find her standing in the door and he felt his heart freeze up.

She was amazing.

She didn't even have to dress slutty to make chills run up his spine. Her lips were pink, and he wondered what kind of lip gloss she was wearing. He wondered what she would taste like if he kissed her.

Behind him, the scary brother cleared his throat loudly.

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Let's go," she smiled at him before turning toward the front door.

"Wait," Ryan called after them. "You never said where you're taking her."

"It's none of your business, Ryan," Sophie told him, not even pausing in her progress outside.

He heard the man start to say something, but the other woman that had come down with Sophie – Summer, he assumed – said something about what _he_ was like when he was sixteen.

He wasn't sure what that meant, but it only seemed to make Ryan all the more desperate to stop them from having a date.

"Come on," Sophie grumbled, grabbing his hand and _pulling_ him outside. "Ignore them."

"He might kill me," he returned, voice low, throwing a fearful look over his shoulder as they made their way down the porch steps.

"Ryan? Please. He tries to act all tough, but he couldn't hurt a fly."

He wasn't so sure, but he wasn't about to argue with her.

At his car, he fumbled to get his key in the door, finally managing it. He opened the door for her and she gave him a smile before getting in. He shut it behind her and ran to the other side, getting in himself. Before he drove off, he took one last look at the house and felt his stomach drop.

The scary brother and her dad were standing on the porch – _watching_ him.

He put his car into drive and pulled away from the curb.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie stick her tongue out at them.

"So where _are_ you taking me?" she turned and gave him another smile.

Oh God.

He was _alone_ with _Sophie Cohen_.

He was more nervous than he'd been back at her house with her scary family.

There was a good chance he would die tonight, from heart failure.

_

* * *

_

review


	13. Pirates

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Faulty Cameras

_Prompt: rainy day, children, pirates_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'Luno' by Bloc Party, off the album 'Silent Alarm'_

_Notes: Um… I have no idea where this came from or where it was intended to go. I started off on one subject and ended up on something completely different. Story of my life._

* * *

"**Pirates"**

"Avast, mateys!" he cries, keeping one eye shut tight and holding his lightsaber above his head. "Time to walk the plank!"

"Daddy," Paige scolds, hands on her hips. "Why would a pirate have a lightsaber? Only Jedis have lightsabers."

He sighs and straightens up, breaking out of his pirate stance. "I don't have a real sword, so let's just pretend the lightsaber's one, ok?"

"But only Jedis have lightsabers," she insists. He knew he shouldn't have let her watch Star Wars so young. "Are you a Jedi pirate?"

"Fine, yes," he relents, taking his pirate stance again.

"Can I be Princess Leia and have a blaster gun?"

"Pirates don't have blaster guns," Nicole interrupts, frowning at her sister.

"A _Jedi_ pirate would," his younger daughter shoots back.

"Not uh."

"Yes huh."

"Daddy!"

He sighs and leans against his lightsaber, like a cane. His daughters continue to argue about the rules of lightsaber and blaster gun use on a pirate ship.

He should've known he and Summer would produce argumentative geeks.

"Logan," Paige whines, turning to the boy sitting on the couch-turned-pirate-ship. The cushions are off, piled up around it to make a fort and the sofa chair serves as the crow's nest. "I can have a blaster gun, right?"

Logan shrugs – neutral, as always. He ducks his shaggy blonde head away from his cousin's glare.

"Why don't we just play Star Wars?" David asks, voice quietly commanding. The girls stop arguing and listen to him.

"Fine," Nicole relents. "But _I_ get to be Leia."

"Why?" Paige whines.

"Because I'm older."

"No fair! Daddy!"

"We'll make up our own characters," Seth tells them. His daughters start to argue again, debating names and backgrounds.

Summer would freak if she heard this. She's been trying so hard to make them like her, but she can't override the geek genes, no matter how many manicures she gives them.

"Who're you guys gonna be?" he directs at his nephews, still leaning on his lightsaber.

Logan shrugs, keeping his eyes locked on his book. David observes this and thinks before answering. "We'll be whoever they want us to be," he looks at his cousins – still arguing.

"Fine, but they may make you Wookies or something…" he warns, grinning. David smiles back, but Logan doesn't even look up.

Seth had thought – when Logan was first born – that he had Autism, because he never met anyone's eyes, but the boy was just incredibly shy. His brother was just as quiet, but he spoke up when he wanted to be heard.

And, like his mother, he always got his way.

But – like his father – 'his way' was usually making everyone else happy.

"We need a stake," Nicole says, looking around.

"What? Why does a Jedi need a stake?" Seth asks his daughter. She rolls her eyes at him.

"We're not playing Star Wars anymore," she says, with that _tone_, like he should know better. Ah yes, he knows that tone well. "We're playing vampire slayers."

"I'm Faith," Paige announces, trying to look tough. "Daddy, can I have a tattoo like she does?"

His heart leaps a bit in his chest. "What? No. You're six. No tattoos till you're thirty, ok?"

She sighs. "I can't do _anything_ till I'm thirty."

"That's right," he agrees. "No make-up or dating or tattoos until you're thirty."

Paige sighs in annoyance again, but turns back to her sister. They start to 'fight', trying to mimic the martial arts from TV.

"Where's my dad?" Logan speaks up finally, raising his head from his book. "I want dad."

"Dad's in Portland," David reminds him, sitting down on the couch next to his brother. "He's coming back Thursday."

"And hey, your mom'll be back soon," Seth tries to cheer the boy up. The girls were out shopping – although he swears this is just revenge. Last week he'd forgotten to pick up Oreos for Summer. This was payback – leaving him to take care of four children on a rainy day while she went out and spent money.

He moves over and leans against the wall and watches them – his girls, arguing like always and Ryan's boys, quiet and contemplative like always. Sometimes, it's like watching them, just in miniature.

Well, Ryan in miniature and Summer in miniature. He's _supremely_ thankful that his girls look like their mother. They have her tanned complexion, her shiny, smooth hair. No sign of pasty skin and frizzy Jew-fro. No. They're beautiful.

They'd be heartbreakers, that's for sure.

The thought makes his stomach lurch. He needs to shove some good Jewish morals down their throats before boys hit puberty and realize the Cohen girls are a catch.

At least they'd have their cousins to watch their backs. David's in the same grade as Nicole and Logan's only a year below Paige. They'd watch over the girls.

No boys would dare come near his daughters with the Atwoods protecting them.

"I wanna go outside," Paige announces, putting her hands on her hips.

"It's raining," he reminds her, pointing outside.

"I know. I wanna go and fight in the rain."

"Why?" he asks, trying _not_ to sound defeated. Sometimes his girls are too much to handle.

"Because, daddy," and there's that _tone_ again, "fighting's more dramatic in the rain."

"Yeah," Nicole joins in. "It's like a metaphor."

"A metaphor?" Seth sighs. "Where in the world did you come up with that? You're _nine_."

"Aunt Taylor," his girls say in unison.

He'd have to have a talk with _Aunt Taylor_ about letting his girls watch Buffy. That and giving them words like _metaphor_ to use in their arguments against him.

It's like that time she taught them to use '_cliché'_. That had been a _long_ week.

Although that, apparently, was just payback for him telling David and Logan their daddy had rage issues.

Issues that came in the form of a punch to the arm and a glare when Logan asked if he could have rage issues, too.

"Well, Aunt Taylor's crazy," he manages to get out, finally. His standard excuse for his sister-in-law.

"Mom's not crazy," David announces, crossing his arms and glaring. "She's just eccentric."

He resists the urge to ask if Taylor had told him to say that. But he doesn't, because David's protective of his mother.

He's so much like Ryan sometimes, it's scary.

"Mommy's home!" Paige _shrieks_, running to the front door.

Summer comes in with an armful of bags, Taylor right behind her. He smiles and moves forward to take the bags as his girls attack their mother.

"Mommy, daddy wouldn't let us play outside, even though the fight would be better outside, and he wouldn't let me be Princess Leia, and he tried to use a _lightsaber_ instead of a sword…"

Summer looks at him, trying not to laugh, and he shrugs back. He has no explanation other than he shouldn't be left alone with children.

"Alright, guys," Taylor calls, "let's head home."

"Sure you don't want to stay for dinner?" Summer offers, but Taylor shakes her head _no_.

"I can't keep avoiding the empty house," she sighs.

"Mom, Uncle Seth called you crazy," David informs her, but keeps his eyes focused in a glare on _him_. Taylor shoots him a smile before kneeling down to her son's level.

"Uncle Seth is still bitter that I stole your dad away from him…"

"Hey!" Seth protests as Summer starts to giggle.

"But daddy and Uncle Seth can't get married," Logan speaks, now that his mother's here. "They're both boys."

"And _that's_ a conversation we'll have when you're a little older," Taylor stands up. "Let's go, I'll make you guys macaroni and cheese for dinner."

Seth watches them leave, then turns to his wife. "So how was your shopping trip? Spend all my money?"

"_Our_ money," she corrects with a smile before giving him a quick kiss. "Just because I'm not working at the moment doesn't make it _your_ money."

"Fine," he relents. He doesn't really care; everything he has belongs to her.

It always has.

"Now," she turns to the bags on the counter. "I picked up a lot of outfits."

"All in blue, I hope?" He stands behind her as she digs through the bags. She nods, pulling everything out for him to see.

He smiles and slides his hands around her waist to rest on her stomach, right over his unborn baby boy.

_

* * *

_

review


	14. Boy

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: KrabbyPatty

_Prompt: Kirsten/Captain Oats_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'Broken Boy Soldier' by the Raconteurs, off the album 'Broken Boy Soldiers'_

_Notes: Um… short, but I hope you enjoy it. I think Kirsten may be the person I have the least grip on, so I'm a little nervous. But hey, at least no one's pregnant in this one..._

* * *

"**Boy"**

Sixty-two days, seventeen hours and eight minutes since she found the note.

It was simple and she keeps wondering how so few words could ruin her.

Her son is gone, her baby boy.

Gone, left, sailed away, however you want to put it, he isn't here, in his room.

Like he's supposed to be.

They haven't changed anything – her and Sandy. She still hopes he'll come back; that somehow, Sandy will convince him to come home. He's been trying; _they've_ been trying. But the Fourth of July's come and gone, and he's still not here.

She keeps forgetting that her son is as obstinate as she is. Mix in Sandy's left-wing stubbornness and she should just consider it a lost cause.

She really shouldn't be here – it hurts to much – but somehow she finds herself in his room, sitting on his bed and staring at the posters on the wall. Downstairs, she can hear the construction workers tramping around her house, but it doesn't matter anymore. They can tear the place down, for all she cares.

It's not like it's really their home without him.

She presses her lips together as her eyes land on his bedside table.

Captain Oats.

It seems odd that he'd leave him here. When he was little, Captain Oats was the first thing he packed, the one thing he made _sure_ was there any time they left the house for more than a day.

And it seems silly, but she wishes he hadn't forgotten it, because she wants him to have something to… look over him. She wants him to have something to talk to, something to rely on.

Captain Oats was always reliable.

More reliable than Ryan, apparently.

She knows she shouldn't think like this – the resentment, the anger at the boy she took in. It's not Ryan's fault; he had an obligation and he went to take care of it.

But she's a mother first, human being second, and she can't help but blame the boy for her son's departure.

Ryan had become the new Captain Oats.

That was the problem with living best friends: they could up and leave you.

Maybe she should mail Captain Oats to him – to show him she still cares. Or maybe she shouldn't – keep him here so he has to come back.

She leans forward and picks up the horse, half expecting to feel warm fur under her fingers.

It's not; just hard plastic. She holds the toy and stares at it, letting her fingers grip the plastic.

"So what do you think I should do?" she asks it, letting the melancholy seep into her voice. "Should I send you there or keep you here?"

Captain Oats – unsurprisingly – doesn't respond.

It just stares at her with its big brown eyes – silent.

Waiting.

"Maybe I should give him a call and tell him you're here, and let him decide. That way he'll know I care. Maybe he'll come home. He'll probably just hang up on me."

Her vision blurs again as she feels the lump rise in her throat.

"Is this payback?" she whispers to her confidant. "For what I did?"

Brown stares back at her, no judgment, no blame.

"Is this God's punishment? He's taking my baby from me because of what I did? An eye for an eye?"

There's silence and she can't decide if it's a good thing or not.

She can't decide why she thought he'd answer.

It's just a toy.

"I miss him. I just want him home, but every time I call he hangs up. Was I that terrible of a mom? I know I focus on my job a lot, and I know I don't cook, but I love him. That counts for something, right? If I could do it all over again, I'd go back and quit my job and pay more attention and-"

"So this is where he gets it," a soft voice interrupts from the doorway and she doesn't have to look up to know who it is.

He doesn't say anything as he comes in and sits next to her on the bed and puts his arm around her and she leans her head on his shoulder.

"Sandy," she whispers, trying desperately not to cry – to hold on to the last bit of control she has. She's cried too much this summer.

"He left Captain Oats," her husband takes the horse from her and she feels empty again.

"He was in such a hurry to leave," she tells him.

"Or he never planned on staying away for good."

She nods and holds on to that.

It's all she has.

_

* * *

_

review


	15. Guilt

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Kylaa

_Prompt: Guilt_

_Rating: M_

_Music: 'The Island' by The Decemberists, off the album 'The Crane Wife'_

_Notes: I'm feeling depressing today, so I believe I'll share it with everyone. I'm still feeling quite uninspired, so I hope this is alright. I hope people get this, because it follows my normal format: no names, no dialogue, no real explanation. _

* * *

"**Guilt"**

He walks through the bar, adjusting his coat as he goes.

No one sees him; or if they do, they don't care. That's the way he wants it, anyway.

When he gets outside, he expects to feel cold, but he doesn't and that's when he remembers it's the middle of summer. It feels strange – that it's so warm. Such a contrast against his skin.

He walks through the streets like a ghost; he almost believes he could walk right through someone if he wanted to. But he doesn't, he just sidesteps everyone and keeps his eyes focused on the pavement. Eye contact isn't good here, and as much as he's itching for a fight, it's not why he came out tonight.

No. It's Friday again.

Fridays are special.

Eventually the crowds thin and he knows he's almost there and he feels the shot of adrenaline – like an injection straight to his heart. That's why he came.

He cuts a sharp right, feeling the ground become soft under his boots as it starts to rise in front of him – a sloping that slowly gets steeper and steeper the further he goes.

He follows the path he's made himself – the week old footprints overlaying ones from the week before, the week before that, the week before that.

Ten sets of footprints. Ten weeks.

His own personal calendar.

When the muscles in his legs start to protest – when his lungs start to hurt – he knows he's almost there. Almost to the top.

Like the warm air, that seems almost ironic.

The top.

At least he _thinks_ its irony; he was never good at those literary terms and all. He didn't pay much attention in English.

The ground turns hard again and he knows he's there. It's only then he raises his head.

If it weren't for the magnificent ache in his chest, he'd stop to admire the view – the clear night sky, the stars, the full moon, the broad expanse of ocean, the shimmering water. It's beautiful, it's perfect. It's everything he's not.

The only sound in his ears is the sound of his breathing; the slow, steadily rising thrum of his blood.

He takes a step forward and his heart skips a beat.

Another step and he forgets how to breathe. Another. Another.

He stares straight ahead now – no looking down till he's there.

And when he gets there, he's remembered how to breathe again – or maybe it's just his body kicking into autopilot, whatever. It doesn't matter, he doesn't care if he breathes or not.

When he gets there, he looks down – at his boots as they extend out past the edge of the cliff.

He takes a deep breath. This is why he came – to stand at the edge and look down.

He wonders if today's the day he'll get the courage to do it. To just take one step forward. Into nothing.

He wonders if he does, would he black out before he hit the rocks below? Or would he be conscious the whole way down? He'd prefer it that way.

That way, he'd get to think all the way – to remember why he deserved it as his body got smashed to bits.

But then the first hint of panic shoots through his stomach and he knows he won't do it.

He never does.

Ten weeks and he's too much of a coward to do this.

He takes a deep breath and steps-

-back.

Just like always.

He steps back and turns around and starts the slow decent from the cliff.

Down past the rocks; down through the trees; down to the road.

He walks back into town, keeping his head low – this time in shame. He's such a coward.

And he gets back to the bar, walking through to his room and this time his boss sees him.

His boss – his enabler.

He nods and the other man nods back.

Just like every other Friday night.

His night.

Her night.

Their anniversary.

Of flames, of broken glass, of burning gas, of glazed-over eyes and cold skin and limp body.

He goes to his room and takes his coat off, takes his t-shirt off, wraps his hands in bandages. He doesn't look in the gritty mirror – he doesn't need to see that he hasn't healed from last week's round of self-flagellation.

He leaves his room and goes to the warehouse, steps into the ring.

It's Friday night and the crowds have turned out to see him.

Friday nights are special.

_

* * *

_

review


	16. Gender

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: ORy

_Prompt: Gender_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Helter Skelter' by Dana Fuchs, off the Across the Universe soundtrack._

_Notes: This is completely random and weird and probably slightly wrong. I blame ORy. And caffeine. I blame caffeine, too. Oh, and it's not child-running-away/suicide-contemplatingly depressing like the last two were, and no one's pregnant, so there's that._

* * *

"**Gender"**

"This was a bad idea," he muttered, starting the Jeep and taking a deep breath.

"By 'bad' you mean 'wicked awesome and totally kickass', right?"

He sighed again and took a quick look at the passenger seat, where his brother was grinning at him, eyes heavy-lidded, hair a mess.

"No, by 'bad' I mean 'stupid'," he shot back, maneuvering his car through the obstacle course that was the parking lot. And by 'parking lot', he meant the front of the frat house, where people had decided that parking on grass and sidewalks was perfectly legal.

He was just glad he'd gotten there a little late, so his car was near the outskirts of the throng. And that he had a Jeep, which handled the off-roading aspect better.

"I think it was 'bad' fun!" Summer giggled from the back seat, joined by his girlfriend. Seth turned almost completely in his seat to see them, as Taylor laughed hysterically while Summer tipped over.

"Thanks for bringing us, honey bear!" Taylor leaned forward in her seat and awkwardly tried to pet his head, voice slurred and dreamy.

"Honey bear?" Seth snorted, taking his eyes off his drunk girlfriend, whose shirt had decided to ride up as she laid down on the seat.

"Cause he got me that bear, you know?" Taylor giggled again and Seth joined in. Oh yeah, that was a _manly_ giggle, right there.

"Taylor," he grunted a warning as he pulled out onto the street. The last thing he wanted was Seth knowing that stupid pet name she kept trying to use.

"I have to pee," Summer announced, eyes closed, head now resting in Taylor's lap, feet up against the window.

"We could pull over," Seth suggested, turning to smack his hand against the dash.

"No, we can't," Summer decided, in that tone of voice that told them they were all idiots. "I'm not a guy."

"Thank God."

"Shut up, Cohen. I'm not like you, I can't just pee anywhere I want, all willy-nilly."

"I wish I was a guy," Taylor sighed, running her fingers through Summer's hair, which Seth seemed to find highly interesting.

"I don't."

"I know what you mean," Summer smiled up at her friend. "Guys have it so easy."

"Not uh," Seth protested, looking at him for support. "We have to be all manly and stuff. It's hard."

"Maybe for you."

"Shut up, _honey bear_."

"But guys can pee anywhere they want," Summer continued. "You don't have to worry about finding a bathroom or getting an STD from the seat. Oh! One night stands would be so much easier!"

"What one night stands?" Seth whipped his head around.

"The hypothetical ones," Taylor told him. Leave it to his girlfriend to use big words while she was smashed.

"You don't have to worry about getting pregnant," Summer clarified – or slurred, whatever.

"Pregnancy is just as big of a fear for us as it is for you," he told them, feeling the annoyance seep in. He wasn't getting laid tonight. Taylor had this weird thing where if someone mentioned pregnancy, she wouldn't fuck him.

"You don't have to carry the freaking thing around for nine months," said girlfriend spoke up. "And shove it out of your crotch. That has to _hurt_."

"It does," Summer nodded.

"Because you've had experience with it," Seth cut in sarcastically, eyes still fixated on the way Taylor's fingers ran through his girlfriend's hair.

"Shut up, Cohen."

"I wish I was a guy," Taylor repeated, resting her head back on the seat.

"You wouldn't last a day," Seth scoffed.

"Wouldn't it be fun," Summer spoke softly, reaching her hand up to try and touch the ceiling, "if we could switch genders and see what it'd be like?"

* * *

"_I swear, the teachers here hate me," Ryan sighed, leaning her head in her hand, elbow propped up on the table._

"_No they don't," Sarah shook her head._

"_Then why am I in detention?" the blonde shot back, quirking an eyebrow._

"_Because you punched Holland Fischer," Sumner hid a smile; Holland used to be his friend and now he was laughing when the guy got punched. _

_By a girl._

"_He deserved it," Ryan shrugged. "But I still think everyone's out to get me cause I'm from Chino."_

"_No, guys think you're hot cause you're from Chino," Sarah cut in. "Could you imagine if you were a guy? Girls can get away with being 'troubled'. Guys can't."_

_Ryan smiled slightly, ducking her head. It was true. It wasn't until she got into that car with her sister that she got in any real trouble. Every other time, the cops had let her off because she was a girl. And even here in Newport, people just shook their heads and told her she had 'spunk' – whatever the hell that was. Her new sister was right – if she were a guy, everyone would insist she was bad news._

"_You owe me, you know," Sarah interrupted her thoughts. "Cause I got in trouble, too."_

"_Well, if you hadn't decided to get all sarcastic with the teacher, you probably wouldn't be here," Sumner told his girlfriend with a glare. Sometimes he wondered how he dealt with her. She was such a geek, but he loved her. He couldn't help it._

"_Hey, don't get all condescending on me," Sarah pouted at him. "You called Holland a fucker in front of Dr. Kim. How smart was that?"_

"_He grabbed your ass!" Sumner threw up his hands._

"_Hence the punch," Ryan shared a smile with him._

"_Hence the 'fucker'," Sumner mimicked._

"_My heroes," Sarah clasped her hands over her heart, voice dripping with sarcasm. Sumner shook his head and they lapsed into silence._

"_So, Townsend, what are you doing here?"_

_The three of them turned to the boy sitting in the back of the classroom as he raised his head from his book, looking fearful._

"_What?"_

"_I asked what you did to get yourself in trouble." Sumner waved his hands around them at the detention room._

"_Well… I…" Taylor licked his lips nervously. "I fell asleep in class."_

"_Ooh, badass," Sarah snickered. Ryan kicked her sister under the table as the boy lowered his head._

"_Sorry," Sumner apologized. "She doesn't seem to live in our human world or understand our human feelings." There was a mumbled answer and a small shrug. Sumner sighed. "Come sit with us."_

"_I don't…"_

"_Come. Sit."_

_Ryan couldn't help but smile as the annoyance crept into Sumner's voice. The boy had rage issues, that was for sure. When she first got here and learned of Sarah's little 'crush' on him, she'd been worried. She'd known guys with rage issues, and they usually weren't good people. But Sumner was cool – he never hit girls, he rarely hit guys. It was usually just verbal attacks that were – to be fair – vicious._

_Taylor stood up, grabbed his books, and headed over. He sat down warily next to Sumner and they lapsed into silence again._

"_So I don't think I know you," Ryan spoke up, taking pity on the poor boy._

"_I keep to myself."_

"_Well, that's depressing," Sarah rolled her eyes._

"_Didn't you used to be part of the debate team?" Sumner leaned back in his chair._

"_A couple years ago."_

"_Why'd you quit?"_

"_I wasn't any good. I… I have trouble talking in front of people…" His shoulders hunched over a little. "Plus, my mom said she didn't want me embarrassing myself in front of everyone."_

"_Your mom sounds wondrous."_

"_Hey," a voice came from the doorway, and the four looked up at Dr. Kim. "No talking. And only one student per table, please."_

_Taylor was the first to move, grabbing his books and heading back to his previous table. Sumner stood and moved as well, as did Ryan, leaving Sarah at the table. Dr. Kim sat at the teacher's desk and the room fell silent._

* * *

"I think that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Ryan mumbled, pressing the brake pedal as the light turned red.

"Or is it the brilliantest?" Taylor asked, quirking an eyebrow like she just said something significant.

"No. And 'brilliantest' isn't a word."

"My girl name is Sarah?" Seth cut in, and Ryan wondered why he was more upset over the name choice and not the fact that Taylor had made him a girl.

"I like Sumner," Summer announced. "It's intellectual."

"It's also a fort," Taylor grinned.

"Shut up. All of you." In the rearview mirror, his girlfriend pouted. "This is, hands down, the most idiotic conversation I've ever had. Shut up."

"Fine, Dr. Cranky Bear," Seth rolled his eyes, too drunk to notice his brother's glare. In the backseat, Taylor giggled.

"Dr. Cranky Bear can give me a physical anytime."

Summer snorted, eyes still closed.

"No more parties for any of you," Ryan decided, not sure whether the uncomfortable feeling was from his girlfriend's mention of a physical, or the way Seth was _grinning_ at him. "At least not with me."

"No fair, man," Seth whined.

"You can party at your own schools," he told them, keeping his eyes locked on the road, not the look his girlfriend was shooting at him through the rearview mirror.

"We can't," Summer protested. "The people I hang out with at Brown are all too socially conscious to throw parties. The RISD people are too nerdy and Taylor goes to school with _French_ people. Berkeley's the only place that throws a good rager."

"Well, you guys can explain this to Sandy and Kirsten. I'm not."

"But you're the sober one," Seth hit his arm weakly.

"Exactly. I'm not the one drinking underage."

"Don't tell your parents," Taylor pouted. "I don't want them to hate me. Can you just hide me under your bed till tomorrow?"

"Me too!" Summer finally opened her eyes. "We'll have a sleepover under his bed! And we can braid each other's hair and tell ghost stories and roast marshmallows…"

"Didn't I tell you guys to shut up? You're giving me a headache."

"Right-o, honey bear."

_

* * *

_

review?


	17. Stranger

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: whitelilly

_Prompt: stranger_

_Rating: K_

_Music: 'Benjamin' by Veruca Salt, off the album 'Eight Arms to Hold You'_

_Notes: Not the most conventional use of the prompt, but I like it. Btw, this is totally AU and they're about nine or ten in this. It's a little strange, I guess, but I think you should just expect that of me. And sorry I didn't use quotations… I hate dialogue, but this one needed it, so I compromised and took out the quotations. Dialogue is in italics. Enjoy the weirdness._

* * *

"**Stranger"**

He falls from her tree on a Sunday morning in early July.

She doesn't know where he came from or who he is or why he's there. All she knows is he has the brightest blue eyes she's ever seen and she's sure she's never met anyone with sneakers as dirty as his.

His shoes fascinate her; black Chucks caked in mud with the laces untied and frayed. She looks down at her own feet, her own perfectly shined Mary Janes.

Her Sunday morning shoes.

The stranger stands up slowly, warily, unnoticing of the mud and grass stains on his pants, the dirt on his hands. Then he waits for her to say something, except she doesn't know what to say.

Because he fell from her tree on a Sunday morning and she doesn't know who he is.

_Why were you in my tree?_ she asks when she finds her voice, tilting her head to the side.

_To steal an apple,_ he replies, staring her straight in the eyes.

She smiles.

She knows what her mother would say if she knew she was talking to him, but she doesn't care. His eyes are blue and his hair is blonde and he's beautiful. She knows exactly who he is, now.

_Are you a prince? _she asks. _Are you here to rescue me?_

She waits patiently for his answer. She's waited nine years for a prince to show up and rescue her, she can wait a few more seconds.

_I don't think so,_ he tells her, shrugging. She frowns.

_Are you sure?_

It seems so right, it seems like something out of her book; the one with pretty stories and pictures of daring princes rescuing damsels in distress. It seems so right, everything's there; the wicked mother, the lonely girl, the handsome boy, the magic apple.

And if a wish were ever to come true, wouldn't it be on a Sunday morning when the sun was low in the sky and the dew still clung to the grass?

_Do you need rescuing?_ He seems to notice the dirt on his hands for the first time and he wipes them on his white shirt and ducks his head low.

_I don't know, _she replies honestly. _But I think I'd like to be. To get away from my mother._

_You could run away,_ he suggests, eyes finding hers again and filling her with that sense of calm. _I ran away from mine._

_Where would I go?_

_Nowhere._

She watches him square his shoulders and she knows she can't run away. Not with him, anyway. He already has himself to take care of, she can't, she won't, burden him.

_This isn't how it's supposed to go,_ she murmurs.

_How what's supposed to go?_ he asks but he doesn't seem fazed by her statement. He doesn't seem to think she's strange like all the others do.

_The story,_ she explains. _You're supposed to rescue me from my evil mother and take me away to a castle on your white horse._

_I don't have a castle,_ he apologizes. _Or a horse._ She frowns.

It seems so right.

She thinks for a while.

_The time's not right,_ she decides and he doesn't answer. He waits for her to explain. _This is just the first meeting. You don't know you're a prince yet._ She smiles at him and nods her head. _You need a Merlin._

_What's a Merlin?_

_A guide,_ she explains, still smiling. _Someone to train you to become a prince._

_I don't think I know anyone like that,_ he tells her.

_I do_. Then she frowns again. _But I don't know how we can get there. It's a really long walk and I can't ask my mother for a ride._

_I have a bike,_ he points over his shoulder and she sees a handle sticking out of a bush, just over the fence.

_Let's go_.

She makes sure her mother isn't looking and she walks with him over the still-damp grass to the fence and he helps her over.

His bike is muddy, but underneath it's white and he sits on the seat and she rides on the spokes and directs him where to go.

He pedals fast and she laughs as the wind blows her hair around. She isn't in control but somehow she knows he won't let her get hurt. Princes don't let their maidens get hurt.

She's sure it's a rule.

_Here,_ she says finally and they stop in front of a house that she knows only because she'd been here once before. She smiles as she remembers. _You can have a sidekick, too,_ she tells him as he props his bike up against the fence and they walk up the driveway.

He doesn't say a word, he just follows her up and stands behind her as she rings the bell.

_Hello,_ the woman answers, looking confused. She doesn't care, though. This feels right. _Are you here for Seth?_

_I'm here for Mr. Cohen,_ she corrects the woman.

_I'll get him, then,_ she replies and invites them into the foyer. Then she walks into another room.

_Wow,_ he breathes, eyes wide as he takes in the room.

_Mr. Cohen can be your Merlin,_ she explains. _And Mrs. Cohen is a good witch and Seth can be your sidekick_.

_Hello, Taylor,_ Merlin greets her and his wife follows him out. _What can I do for you?_

_We need your help,_ she takes the offered seat on the sofa but her prince doesn't. He's too muddy. He takes off his shoes in the foyer so he doesn't track it on the carpet and stands next to the couch where she sits. _See, he's not ready to rescue me yet,_ she tells them.

_I'm not sure I follow,_ the man furrows his eyebrows, looking between them. Her prince shrugs and casts his eyes to the floor.

She sighs and starts to explain. _He's a prince,_ she tells them solemnly. _But it's not time to rescue me yet, because he doesn't know he's a prince yet. He needs a Merlin_.

_I'm still not sure I get it,_ the good witch interrupts.

Behind her, the boy takes a deep breath. _I'm not sure about all that,_ he waves his hand at her. _I'm not any kind of prince._

_He doesn't have a home,_ she explains again. _He can't realize he's a prince if he doesn't have a castle or a Merlin._

_You don't have a home_, the man asks, turning his attention to her prince. He shrugs but doesn't say anything.

_I was hoping you could find him a Merlin_, she smiles. She doesn't tell them she's already picked them out as his Merlin. She has to let them realize it.

_I'll see what I can do_, Merlin stands up and sticks his hand out. Her prince hesitates, but finally shakes his hand. _Why don't you stay with us until we figure it out?_ _Do you have anything? Clothes, personal items?_

_I have a bike_, he shrugs, voice low.

_Why don't you two run out and bring it up to the house_, the good witch suggests, standing up. _Mr. Cohen and I have some things to discuss._

She nods and thanks them. Then she takes her prince's hand and leads him back outside after he puts his shoes back on.

_See_, she grins as they walk down the driveway.

_I still don't think I'm a prince_, he whispers when they reach his bike. She doesn't say anything. He'll figure it out eventually.

When they get back to the top of the driveway, she sees his new sidekick standing there.

_Hey_, he nods.

_Hey_, her prince nods back.

_Mom and dad say you're staying with us for a couple days. That's cool._

_Yeah_.

She smiles because everything's working out. She knew it would, because it feels right.

_Your bike's kinda dirty_, his sidekicks points. _We have a hose, wanna wash it?_

Her prince nods and they take it around the side of the house and spray it down. She watches as the mud runs down the pavement and leaves behind a shiny white bike and she smiles.

_See,_ she says again when it's clean._ You have a white horse and a Merlin and a good witch and a sidekick_.

_I'm a sidekick_, the other boy asks, but doesn't sound annoyed. He sounds happy.

_Taylor_, the good witch calls. _Why don't we get you home before your mother starts worrying?_ She motions to her car, keys in hand.

She sighs and nods.

_I guess I'll see you around_, her prince keeps his voice low.

She smiles and leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. _Come rescue me when you find out you're a prince_, she tells him before getting in the car.

The good witch tries to hide a smile and they back out of the drive as Merlin comes out and rests his hand on the sidekick's shoulder.

She waves at them and her prince watches her go.

As they drive home, she stares out the window. She knew someday a prince would come to take her away from her life. He wasn't as glamorous as she first imagined, but she doesn't care.

He's perfect.

It feels right.

And what better time for wishes to come true than a warm Sunday morning?

_

* * *

_

review


	18. Tacos

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Kylaa

_Prompt: tacos_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'These Long Summer Days' by She's Spanish, I'm American, off the album 'Sunday Music, Volume 1'_

_Notes: I feel like I start every one of these with the phrase 'I don't know where this came from'. But it applies, yet again._

* * *

"**Tacos"**

"You know," he mumbles, laying stretched out on the floor, "I keep waiting to get sick of them, but with every bite, I love them more and more." His brother snorts at the sarcasm but can't manage a full laugh.

"I don't think I can eat anymore. I may actually die."

"Don't crap out on me, man," he tries to roll onto his side, letting out a pained groan when his stomach protests. "Stay with it."

"No. No more."

In a feat of great strength – if he may say so himself – he sits up, taking a deep breath. "I thought you were an Atwood."

"I am an Atwood."

"Then where's the legendary Atwood strength? The ability to overindulge and not reap the consequences?"

His brother turns his head to look at him with a grimace. "I think that stuff only applies to fights and alcohol."

"But we have to do this. Come on, Kid Chino, brace yourself."

His brother sits up with a glare, shifting to lean back against the couch. "Go figure _you_ would win the worst contest in the world."

"That's what Summer said."

"Yeah, and notice how she's not here right now."

"You think she's avoiding me?"

"I know she is."

He scoffs – why would his girlfriend be avoiding him? "I should call her. We could use her help."

"I told you, she's avoiding you for the same reason Sandy and Kirsten are."

"They're not!"

"Sophie cried," the blonde boy reminds him, voice a little defensive. "How could you do that to a six year old?"

"She wanted to help!"

"Help, yes. Be force-fed frozen tacos? No."

He frowns and crosses his arms over his stomach. Which turns out is the worst thing to do, and he unfolds his arms, resisting the urge to throw up. They fall into silence as they try to digest.

He looks around the room. Empty, bright yellow boxes litter the place, the smell of spices and meat lingering everywhere. His stomach protests again.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," he murmurs, putting his hand over his stomach and stumbling to his feet. He makes it to the bathroom just in time to throw up and he rests his head against the porcelain when he's done. From the living room, he hears Ryan groan.

"We could just throw them out," the other boy suggests, still sitting on the floor and leaning back against the couch.

"No. This is the first thing I've ever won – I'm not _throwing it out_."

"So, what? It's better to shove twelve boxes of tacos down your stomach, then throw it all up?"

"Yes. I refuse to let my year's supply of frozen tacos go to waste."

He ignores the stunned – and slightly annoyed – look his brother gives him and goes to the freezer. Opening the door, he's met with yellow.

Lots and lots of yellow.

He lets out a sigh and pulls out another box, tearing it open and removing the plastic. He doesn't even bother to microwave them anymore, he just starts gnawing on the frozen taco. He pulls out a second box and throws it at Ryan's head.

"If I die, I'm coming back to haunt you," he sighs, but opens the box and pulls out the food.

"I don't know why you're angry at _me_," he protests, sitting on the floor next to his brother again. "I'm not the one who's making us do this." That earns a glare and he involuntarily shifts away. The last thing he needs is a punch – especially to the stomach area. And Ryan was just evil enough to do that in his current condition. "Blame our dear mother."

"Kirsten only said she didn't want a million taco boxes clogging up her freezer. All she said was to get them out of her house before she got back Monday, _not_ eat all of them in a three day weekend."

They don't say anything for a while, the living room filled only with the sound of plastic wrappers being opened and taco shells crunching. Otherwise the house is silent, what with his mom and dad out on a three-day vacation and Sophie – so _not_ avoiding him – over at her friend's house. Summer's not avoiding him, either. She's just out shopping.

Since Friday.

"What are you trying to prove with this, anyway?" his brother starts after a while, staring intently at the taco in his hand, as if it were some large challenge he's psyching himself up for. "I mean, it's not like you _paid_ for the tacos."

"Yeah, but I won them," he pouts, almost defensively. "I have really bad luck and I _never_ win anything. I refuse to waste this."

Ryan sighs and puts down his taco. "Strikes me that you actually have really good luck. I mean, you have an awesome family, you got the girl you've been obsessed with since you were ten, you're in this really prestigious college, you've co-created a com- _graphic novel_," he corrects off Seth's look. "Winning some cheap radio contest doesn't make you lucky."

Seth taps his fingers on his leg in annoyance. He hates when Ryan's right.

"Fine."

Two hours and one car ride later, they stand in front of a very confused woman, bags in hands.

"So let me get this straight," she asks warily, furrowing her brow. "You want to donate _how many_ boxes of… tacos?"

He and Ryan exchange a glance and he nods at his brother to start explaining.

And while Ryan helps the woman load up the orphanage's freezer, he steps outside to call Summer. She doesn't answer – she hasn't been answering his calls for the past two days – and he sighs.

"Hey, Summer," he says, leaning up against the wall, "I just wanted to let you know it's safe to come around again. Ryan and I got rid of the tacos. You'll be proud – we donated them to homeless kids."

The tone cuts him off and he shuts his cell phone, squinting against the bright sun. He hates when Ryan's right.

And now he hates tacos.

Ryan comes outside and leans up next to him.

"So… you wanna get some Mexican food?"

_

* * *

_

review


	19. Path

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Fastforwardd

_Prompt: Seth/Summer_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'Stand By Me' by Ben E. King, off the album 'Don't Play That Song'_

_Notes: So I haven't worked on this in a while, have I? I seem to be on a random updating spree, with Chino-verse, then In Bloom and now this. But I kind of got inspired (read: distracted) while I was working on Vegas 3, which ended up as this. So I hope you enjoy! Oh, also, there's an album name hidden somewhere in here. See if you can find it and tell me which band it's from... It's in there because I happened to look up while I was trying to come up with adjectives and saw it..._

* * *

"**Path"**

Endless snow drifted past the window, untouched, save for random smatterings of animal tracks crisscrossing the otherwise perfect white. The bus rolled along as fast as it dared, following the tracks of oil trucks and other vehicles that had come before.

She huddled in her seat, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, trying to gain some warmth from keeping her body curled in on itself. To her left, she could hear the others talking, trying to distract themselves from the biting cold and depressing sameness of the scenery. The windowpane to her right was dirty and gritty with use – dust from the Southwest, mud from the East, frozen water from here. She had officially been to every state in the continental US, and now she'd been to Alaska.

Oil drilling – that's what brought her here to Alaska. Oil drilling.

Yet oil had nothing to do with why she was really here – cold, alone, tired. She was searching for herself; she had to find out who the hell she was supposed to be. That's what she'd told _him_, at least. Truth was, she hadn't been on her own since she was fifteen and it was about damn time she learned to take care of herself. When she was little she had her daddy to take care of her – to buy her pretty things and get her out of trouble. Then in high school, she'd had _him_ to take care of her – to hold her at night, to take her hand when she was upset, to make her laugh when she was sad.

All her life she'd been taken care of, she didn't know how to function on her own. College had taught her that. Those five months when she'd been on the other side of the country from him had been horrible. She'd made poor decisions and fell in with bad people and she got kicked out of the only place she'd ever really felt was her own. College had been liberating and terrifying at the same time – sudden freedom and crippling solitude all rolled into one.

When she came back home after she got kicked out, he hadn't held it against her – her avoidance, her change. He'd encouraged her and loved her and held her like he always did, curled up in his bed in the dark as indie music rang softly from his stereo and his snores filled the room.

The pregnancy scare was what sealed her fate; it had shocked her out of her haze and jolted her back into reality. Because for a while – she couldn't even pretend like it was a passing fantasy – she'd actually hoped she was. She'd hoped she was pregnant, because then it would be easy.

Not _easy_, because having a kid wasn't easy, but easy, because she wouldn't have to think about her future. Her decisions would be made for her – they would get married and have a child and live their life together. It would be easy, a clear cut path through the tangled mess of a jungle that life was. So even though she'd pretended to be upset – she was, she was terrified – she had hoped, deep down, that the choice would be made for her.

It hadn't been, though. She wasn't pregnant, but he'd still proposed. She had said yes, even though it had been wrong. Because that little line on the pregnancy test had snapped her back to life. Giving him his ring back – just a week later – wasn't easy, but it was easier than she thought it would be. Just one little stone, rolling down a hill, picking up speed, gathering mud and dust and dirt, building in size until she was here. It started off with giving the ring back and ended with her on the opposite side of the country, on a bus filled with unwashed hippies and radical politicians.

It had been over a year since she'd last seen him, after Julie's non-wedding. She'd gotten on her bus and rode away, watching him stand there and wave at her like he was _proud_.

How could he be proud of her? She was running scared, didn't he get that? Claustrophobia had set in, so she got on a bus and now she hadn't seen him in a year. Sometimes she wondered how he was doing… you know what, scratch that. She _always_ wondered how he was doing – if he was happy, if he was doing well in his classes, if he still drew her in skimpy outfits. Sometimes she wondered if he'd moved on, but she knew he hadn't. It wasn't in his nature to _move on_.

She knew that whenever she came back – whether it was months, years, decades later – he'd be waiting for her. He'd be there at the airport with a smile on his face and he'd reach out for her and he'd take her in his arms and tell her how much he'd missed her. Even if she didn't go back until they were old and grey, she knew he'd be waiting – not even thinking to be angry with her for making him wait.

She had no idea what she'd done in her entire life to deserve him. It couldn't have been the way she'd acted when she was little – selfish, mean, spoiled. She was supposed to end up with someone like Luke or Chip – rich Newport bobbleheads that would cheat on her constantly. She was supposed to end up with no thought in her head other than what color she'd paint her nails that day, or what purse to carry her tiny, yapping dog in.

He had opened her eyes to the real world – the gritty reality of life. Not like Ryan's gritty reality – she wasn't sure she could handle _that_ – but the idea that there was more to life than money and alcohol. There was Chrismukkah; there were bad 70's ninja movies; there was love and devotion and complete trust, and he'd shown it all to her.

She missed him. With every breath she took, with every blink of her eyes, with every passing mile, she missed him. She was supposed to find herself on this bus, but the only things she found was a melancholy and an infinite sadness.

Once, four months ago, they'd been in the East, up Rhode Island way and she'd contemplated taking some time off from protesting to go see him. Maybe she'd take a page from Taylor's book and just watch him, stand outside his dorm and wait for him to walk in and out, feel her heart jump every time she saw him.

But she hadn't – she'd run scared again. She'd stayed on the bus and continued her now pointless tour of the country. Now she was in Canada, returning from an apparently successful oil drilling protest, and they were headed South, toward New Mexico. Honestly, she couldn't for the life of her remember why. When this trip first started, she'd known every detail about where they were going and why, but now she was hard pressed to come up with even the _direction_ they were going.

Because somewhere along the way, she'd stopped caring. Somewhere along the way she realized that saving the earth was all well and good, but it meant nothing – _nothing_ – if you didn't have people to share it with. What good was helping the animals if she forgot about _people_ in the process? What meaning did her life hold if all she did was hold signs and try to shout louder than the other guy? Meaning was found in her connections to the world – through the people she loved and the people that loved her back.

Her meaning, she'd come to realize, was found in him.

She was meant to be with him, she saw it now. She was meant to be his wife and have his children and spend the rest of her life growing old and constantly arguing with him. She was meant to spend her nights curled up in his arms with his snores filling the room and his cold feet making her shiver. It was like something had been cleared in her head – like a path through the tangled mess she'd made of her life.

This time, she was actually going to follow it.

She'd already told the leaders of their group that the minute they crossed into Washington, she was off the bus and on another headed East. Somehow, none of them had seemed surprised by her news. She could even feel the lump of money in her pocket that they'd given her – she hadn't needed personal money since she'd stepped foot on the bus over a year ago and the heavy weight of it was strange and familiar all at once. It would fund her cross-country bus trip – her path back to him.

She pulled on her hood to better cover her face from the cold and planned it all out. She'd briefly considered surprising him – showing up at his dorm after renting a hotel room so she could shower and change and look presentable. But no, that wouldn't work. She was going to call him, at least a day before she arrived, because she wanted to step off her bus – tired, grimy, mussed and imperfect.

She wanted to step off the bus looking the worst she possibly could and see him smile. She wanted to see him smile and open his arms and welcome her back and tell her how much he missed her. She wanted him to take her to his place and make inappropriate comments about how much she needed a shower and how he'd be a gentleman and take one with her if she wanted. She wanted to see the eager anticipation on his face after she came out of his shower and he sat on his bed. She wanted him to hold her after, with his indie rock softly ringing from his stereo and his snores filling the room.

She wanted to fall asleep in his arms and wake up the next morning and know that she'd be doing it for the rest of her life.

_

* * *

_

review


	20. Talk

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Mely-fan

_Prompt: Ryan, Taylor, Sophie and the sex talk_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Playground' by Sia, off the album 'Some People Have Real Problems'_

_Notes: Well, I'm completely stuck trying to write chapter three of V3, so I'm trying to get my inspiration flowing. Btw, I really have a thing for not using names in these one-shots. So again, I hope this isn't confusing… Also, it's mostly dialogue, which I'm not good at, but I kinda couldn't make the prompt work without it._

* * *

"**Talk"**

She stares at them intently, head cocked to the side, eyes wide with undisturbed innocence. Her gold curls hang loose over her shoulders, pink pajamas too big for her frame, teddy bear clutched in her left hand as she sucks the thumb of her right. She watches them as they pull the covers up hastily, letting out little noises of surprise.

"Ryan?" she pulls her thumb out of her mouth with a wet plop, tiny eyebrows furrowing. "Can you read me a story?"

"Sophie," the boy flushes red, bunching the sheets around his waist as he sits up.

"I thought you locked the door," the girl whispers, holding the covers up to her neck and sitting up as well.

"I did, she knows how to pick it," he whispers back as they shift to put more room between them. "Seth taught her, cause he thought it'd be funny."

"Ryan?" the little girl calls again, all light and innocence as she begs for attention. "Story?"

"Sophie, hun, now's not a good time, alright?" the boy soothes, running a hand through his hair.

"Oh," she frowns – her perfect, tiny mouth turning down at the corners in a perfect, tiny pout. "What are you doing?"

"Doing?" he repeats, eyes widening with panic.

"Were you hurting Taylor?"

"No," the girl on the bed jumps in quickly, looking from the boy to the little girl. "No, he wasn't hurting me, sweetie."

"Then why were you making those noises?" the girl frowns harder, eyes flashing as she doesn't get her way – her explanation.

"Oh God," the boy moans, running his hand over his face.

"Ryan and I were… wrestling," the girl on the bed tries, looking for confirmation at the boy as she clutches the sheets to her chest. "Like on TV?"

"I wanna wrestle."

"No!" the boy jumps in quickly, panic making him stiffen. "Just… no."

Blue eyes flash in anger, her tiny fist tightens on the bear as she stomps her foot. "Why not? No fair, no fair, no fair, no fair," she chants, voice rising with each repeat.

"Sophie, honey, calm down," the girl on the bed shoots a panicked look at the doorway. "You'll bother your parents while they're watching TV. You know how your mommy loves Meerkat Manor."

"Why can't I wrestle, too?" Her eyes are calculating as she gazes at them, narrowing as they drop to the sheets.

"It's an adult thing, Soph," the boy tries, lamely, to explain.

"Yeah, you can wrestle when you're older…" the girl tries to help.

"No! Never. You are _never_ allowed to wrestle, Sophie," the boy tenses, jaw clenching resolutely. "Never."

"You can't keep her from doing it, Ryan," the girl on the bed scolds, brushing her mussed hair out of her face. "Not forever."

"Yes I can," he growls.

"What, are you gonna follow her around for the rest of her life?"

"If that's what it takes."

"Whatever," the girl rolls her eyes. "Sophie, why don't you go ask Seth and Summer to read you a story? You never get to see them, you should spend as much time with them as you can this summer."

"No. I want to wrestle."

"Not until you're older," the girl on the bed soothes.

"Why?"

"Because, only adults can do it," she tries to explain, searching for words.

"So once I grow up I can?" She tilts her head again, hope flaring in wide eyes.

"No!" the boy tries to argue again. "Never."

"When you're older, Sophie," the girl repeats, hitting the boy lightly on the arm.

"Then I can wrestle with boys?"

The boy on the bed chokes, face reddening in anger.

"Only one boy at a time," the girl advises, sagely. The boy makes a strangled protest, so she rephrases. "When you're an adult and you're married, then you can."

"You're not married," the little girl accuses.

"Oh God," the boy mutters, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

"No, we're not," the girl on the bed says slowly. "But we love each other and someday we will be, so it's alright."

"Oh," the little girl frowns. She sighs loudly and turns and leaves and they hear her footsteps on the stairs.

"Well, that was fun," the girl sighs, falling back onto the bed.

"What the hell was that about us getting married?" the boy doesn't follow suit –stays upright in absolute panic.

"Calm down, Ryan," she rolls her eyes again. "I just said it to make Sophie go away." She gets out of the bed and shuts the door, locking it again. "You should get a deadbolt."

"I just hope this is one of the things she _doesn't_ remember when she gets older," he runs his hand over his face again. "It's bad enough she caught us in the middle, I can't imagine…"

He's interrupted by hurried feet on the stairs, pounding on the door.

"Ryan?"

"Oh God," he moans again. "Sandy?"

"Ryan, what is Sophie talking about?"

"_Kirsten?_" he whispers in horror.

"Ryan, open this door," the man's voice is commanding, loud and booming through the wooden barrier.

"Uh, Sandy, now's not a good time," the boy calls back.

"Ryan," the woman calls through this time. "You got _married_?"

The boy groans as the girl gets off the bed and starts searching for her clothes.

"Well, I guess I'm not getting my orgasm anymore," she mutters angrily as she picks up her shirt.

"Ryan?" the woman calls through the door again. "What's going on?"

"Leave them alone, mommy," a tiny, innocent voice sounds from outside. "They're wrestling."

On the bed, the boy puts his head in his hands and groans.

"Oh _God_…"

_

* * *

_

review


	21. Song

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: ORy

_Prompt: Song_

_Rating: T_

_Music: Where to start? ('New Slang' – the Shins; 'Photo Booth' – Death Cab for Cutie; 'Brain Stew' – Green Day; 'Limp' and 'Criminal' – Fiona Apple; 'I Only Have Eyes For You' – The Flamingos; 'Stand By Me' – Ben E. King; 'Magic Man' and 'Crazy on You' – Heart; 'Lovesong' – The Cure; 'Boys of Summer' – Don Henley; 'Out of Control' – The Chemical Brothers; 'Wicked Game' – Chris Isaak; 'Behind Blue Eyes' – The Who; 'Don't You Forget About Me' – Simple Minds; 'Miss You Love' – Silverchair; 'Hello, It's Me' – Todd Rundgren; 'You Outta Know' – Alanis Morissette; 'Angel of the Morning' – The Pretenders; 'Paint it Black' – The Rolling Stones; 'Wonderful Tonight' – Eric Clapton)_

_Notes: I'd like to preempt this fic by saying that music is my life. And, to be honest, I kinda live my life like this. Also, picking out songs was really hard, cause anytime I picked something, I had to remember that not everyone listens to the same music as I do. So I hope the songs are general/mainstream enough for everyone to know. Oh, and ORy? I seem to always do these long, college-themed one-shots for you. I wrote this and realized it was pretty damn close to 'First'... ah well._

* * *

"**Song"**

Taylor Townsend had always seen her life in terms of music.

Not in the sense of _'hey, what's the cool new song on the radio these days?'_ or even '_I want to be a famous musician when I grow up_'.

Maybe it stemmed from her extensive movie library; blame it on her lack of a teenage social life. Ages nine through eighteen were spent watching movies every night – running the gambit from Disney movies to horror flicks to old Abbott and Costello comedies on the local stations late at night. So perhaps it wasn't so strange that she just assumed _everyone_ had theme music running through their heads all day.

She learned – later, when she actually got friends – that she was wrong. Most people, it seemed, didn't attribute music to everyday situations.

People always did say she marched to the beat of her own drummer.

Her mother, for example, was the music from _Psycho_ – loud screeching bursts that turned her heart into ice. Back in high school, approaching the building had been a steady rise, an increasing crescendo of violins that broke the minute she entered the doors.

The first people – besides her mother and Hess – to get their own brand of music were Seth and Summer. Together they were The Shins – mellow, warm, often uplifting. When she hung out with them she heard _New Slang_ in her head and she would smile. Apart, Seth was Death Cab – most likely because that was the music she heard most often around him. Summer was harder to peg down, and she eventually settled for Green Day – hard and fast, always quick with an insult, but surprisingly gentle underneath it all, and soft sometimes, with a bit of political commentary thrown in for good measure.

Sex had its own music. Not in general – it varied partner to partner, usually based on the guy's natural tempo. She'd been going through her Fiona Apple phase in senior year, which was probably why Hess was attributed with _Limp_ and _Criminal_. Looking back, the lyrics were oddly fitting.

Sung-Ho had obvious theme music – Big Korea. Because – duh – the guy's cousin was a member.

Henri-Michel had been Celine Dion. God help her, the French bastard had _loved_ Celine Dion, and somehow, it fit. Everything with him had been dramatic and over the top, so by the end, his declarations of love had become _so_ overplayed, so _My Heart Will Go On_. Plus, he _did_ have a tendency to make annoying comebacks that weren't really welcome anymore.

Her time hiding under Seth's bed had a very definite _Garbage _feel – angry and dark, hiding from the world. Thank God that hadn't lasted long.

Kirsten was amazing, helping her out with her mother – although that hadn't stopped the _Psycho_ music from ringing through her head when they went to see her. She rarely got to see Sandy and Kirsten separately, so in her head they were _I Only Have Eyes for You_. And the Cohen family in a whole had had a definite sense of _Stand By Me_.

Ryan… well, he was just a different tune altogether, wasn't he? Actually, if she were being completely honest, Ryan was a whole other _genre_.

Not literally – it's not like he was polka while the rest of the world was classical – but he was just… different. He was the only person in her life to get _multiple_ songs – an entire album's worth.

When they first started out with this whole _dating_ thing they did, it had been Heart. She couldn't help it – whenever he walked into a room, she automatically heard _Magic Man_ and whenever she kissed him she could feel the slow build-up and eventual break of _Crazy on You_.

Waking up in his bed, mellow Sunday mornings, lazy kisses and soft touches were _Lovesong_. The Cure version, of course, not one of the covers. In his car, with the windows open and the wind rushing through and her hair blowing wildly was _Boys of Summer_.

So she guessed it made sense that their sex had multiple songs, too. When it was hard and fast – when they couldn't keep their hands off each other – it was The Chemical Brothers, _Out of Control_. When he took his time, slow and teasing, it was _Wicked Game_.

The exact moment she realized she was in love with him, it was _Behind Blue Eyes._

When he told her he loved her, it had been _Part of Your World_ – the consequences, she assumed, of being drunk and having just sung it on the coffee table.

And when he took it back, it had been like a record scratching into silence.

Her head had never fully recovered. It stayed silent through the earthquake and the subsequent months with everyone living in the Roberts house. That – more than the hackeysack problem, more than the mustache debacle – was what had made her leave. For the first time in her life, her head was silent and she knew something had been wrong. Because, despite his – hesitant, whispered – declarations that he did, in fact, love her, she knew he was just saying it to make her happy.

So she left and the minute she got stepped through security, the music started up again. _Don't You Forget About Me_.

Ah, _Breakfast Club_, go figure.

She had looked back at Seth and Summer – not Ryan, he was 'at work', even though she knew he was at home, sullen and brooding and pretending he didn't care – as she walked through the gate, and the music started.

The next few months had been chock full of Nirvana – sad and lonely, by the end of which, she'd wanted to kill herself. Then she'd come home – for Julie's spectacular _non_-wedding – and seen him again, and _Crazy on You_ had blasted through her head again.

She'd taken the song's advice in the guest bedroom of the Berkeley house.

Leaving him again had been bittersweet, with Silverchair's _Miss You Love_ playing in the background, soft and slow at first, then heavy with feeling near the end.

The next four years in France had been a mix of songs, most of which were unattributed to him. Most of it was general – what she'd been listening to on her iPod, what had been on the radio. Some of her professors and a few friends had their own songs, but none inspired the wide variety like Ryan had.

Ryan. They had talked a lot, in the first semester spent apart. They'd tried – really hard – to do the long distance thing, but every phone call had _Hello, It's Me_ playing softly in the background, and when he'd finally had enough and broke up with her for good, she'd finally understood what Alanis Morissette had been singing in _You Oughta Know_.

The first Chrismukkah back, she'd been invited to the Cohens, despite her breakup with Ryan. He'd been distant, staying on the other side of the room and never looking at her. He'd found her, though, when she went upstairs to make sure her mascara wasn't smudging. Afterwards, she'd been ashamed of herself – and her lack of self-control – and she had to listen to _Angel of the Morning_ as she got out of his bed and tried to find her clothes without crying.

It was the same song that played every Chrismukkah, when he would inevitably find her, somewhere in the house, and she'd lose her self-control and have to shamefully find her clothes and redress without waking him.

Her flights to and from France – before and after vacations – flew to the theme of _Paint it Black_.

She'd always like the Stones.

And now here she was, four years later, in Berkeley and she was at peace, because the only music on her head was whatever was blasting out of the speakers. She'd watched her best friends get married to their theme – The Shins – and now the reception DJ was relieving her mind of its exhausting task of playing its own music.

That was – of course – until she came face to face with Ryan again. She'd successfully avoided him all night, ever since they'd gotten into separate cars to get to the reception hall. She saw him from across the room and he saw her and she watched him weigh the decision to talk to her.

As he approached, she could _feel_ her brain working, like scanning a radio, songs flipping by, but her mind couldn't settle on a station, because she had no idea what would happen when he finally got to her – she had no idea what song would be appropriate.

He reached her, finally, and paused for a long second, like he was trying to decide what to say. Maybe _his_ mind was scanning the possibilities, too. She was shaking with anticipation as he opened his mouth, because here it was.

_What song would he choose?_

"Hey," he breathed, voice low, and he stepped forward. He hesitated a second longer, darting his tongue out to lick his lips before looking around – to see if anyone else was listening. "You look… wonderful tonight."

Well, at least she had her song now.

_

* * *

_

review


	22. Flashbacks

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Keydazy

_Prompt: __1:42 on a Tuesday morning_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'SRXT' by Bloc Party, off the album 'Weekend In the City'_

_Notes: I'm a horrible, horrible person._

* * *

"**Flashbacks"**

He's having flashbacks; not the good ones, of sunny days and laughter and family.

He's having flashbacks of heat; of fire that rages out of control and the smell of burning hair and leaking gas.

He's having flashbacks of loss.

But this time it's not a car and his eyes are glued to the flames that eat up his life.

Next to him, Kirsten sobs, but he can't hear that. He can't hear much of anything, really. It's like someone put a plastic bag over his head; vision blurry, sounds muffled, breath labored and hot, hard to take in.

And as firefighters rush around them and water streams out of hoses and lights flash and neighbors talk and Kirsten cries and Sandy shouts, he can't help but be thankful that Seth's across the country.

As it is, he may already lose one sibling.

It's weird to think that right now, Seth's sleeping, unaware and only thinking about his classes tomorrow. Seth's sleeping and he's here, watching his life burn down.

The hardwood floors, the shingled roof, the picnic table out back. All of their clothes; their books; their pictures.

Pictures of Seth as a kid; pictures of his first Chrismukkah with them; pictures of Sophie at her first birthday. And somewhere up there, deep in the corner of his burning closet, pictures of Marissa.

As he coughs smoke out of his lungs, he can't help but think that it's ironic; he keeps losing her to fire.

Something touches his shoulder and he turns bleary eyes to a paramedic. The man says something and it takes his brain a moment to process it; what happened to his hands. He looks down at them; scarred and burnt and bloody from the doorknob of Sophie's room.

He remembers waking to the sound of the fire alarm blaring; he remembers getting out of bed and going into the hall, seeing the smoke curling out of the bathroom. He remembers going to wake Sandy and Kirsten; stumbling down the stairs and Kirsten yelling about Sophie. He remembers going back up; how hot her door was, how it burned his hands as he ran inside, how the smoke stung his eyes and his throat, how it filled his lungs.

He remembers most of all, how quiet the room was; how peaceful she looked, like she was sleeping.

He remembers not knowing if she was alive or dead, just picking up her tiny body hugging her to his chest as he tried to stay conscious in the heat.

He remembers Kirsten's scream when he got outside and she saw her daughter; her tiny daughter, silent and still.

It was Kirsten's birthday today.

Yesterday, he supposes, glancing at his watch and seeing its way past midnight.

How long have they been standing out here?

He feels a strange tightening in his gut as the paramedic drags him toward the truck; a sense of wrongness as he sees a white sheet covering something small.

He's not religious, never has been. But he prays now.

It's too late and time slows down as the paramedic cleans his hands, but he doesn't pay attention because he's too busy watching as the other goes over to Kirsten. He doesn't need to hear what the man says because Kirsten's hopeless scream is enough to rip his soul apart.

He watches Sandy crumple, back hitting the side of a fire truck hard, sliding down to the ground. He watches as the paramedic holds Kirsten up, tries to stop her from running to her daughter, covered by the white sheet.

The paramedic calls it; _1:42 a.m._

He was too late.

He always is.

_

* * *

_

review


	23. Rain

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: whitelilly

_Prompt: rain_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Rusted Wheel' by Silversun Pickups, off the album 'Carnavas'_

_Notes: You said I could write it about anyone… And considering I was being insomnia girl last night (I wrote this at one in the morning) you're lucky it isn't about Oliver..._

* * *

"**Rain"**

The rain was oddly fitting.

She kicked the ground at her feet, hands in her jacket pockets.

Silent.

What was she supposed to say?

How do you talk to a grave?

It's not like she'd ever done this before.

She'd never been alone with… _it_.

Her mother hadn't come; too busy being in denial.

Two whole years.

What was she supposed to say?

_I miss you? Why did you leave me? I wish you hadn't died?_

She wished she'd brought an umbrella or something.

Her sister had always loved theatrics; go figure she'd find a way to make it rain on her anniversary.

Suddenly the rain stopped and she looked up in surprise at the black umbrella hovering over her head.

She honestly hadn't expected him today.

She knew he came last year, on the first anniversary, but she was a little surprised he hadn't forgotten about it. She was surprised he'd flown down from Berkeley to be here today. She guessed she shouldn't be, though and she reminded herself that he'd loved her sister, once.

Maybe he still did, she didn't know but she hoped, for his sake, that he didn't. It would be hard enough going through life with this on shoulders; he didn't need the extra weight of _her_ hanging over him. She hoped, for his sake, that he'd moved on.

"Didn't expect to see you here." He was, surprisingly, the first one to talk and she inclined her head at him, brushing her wet, matted hair off her face. Rain poured down around them, but they stood in a circle of calm, his umbrella sheltering them from the onslaught. "You weren't here last year."

He was right, she hadn't come last year. She'd been too angry.

"I didn't expect to see you, either." Which explained why she was here now.

She hadn't expected anyone else to come.

"Ah," he said and turned to look at the grave; granite marker beautifully dramatic in the overcast, just like _she_ had always been. He didn't say anything else and his silence was like a magnet, drawing her words out.

"What am I supposed to say?"

"What do you mean?"

"To her? What am I supposed to say?" When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "What do you say?"

"I don't say anything."

She should have figured.

"I feel like I should say something," she pressed, crossing her arms over her stomach as they stared out at the grave.

"So say something."

She huffed, glaring, as water trickled out of her hair, making rivulets down her face. "Like what?"

"Like whatever you want."

She couldn't be sure if he was trying to piss her off or not, so she let it go. Instead she turned to face the marker that stood six feet above her sister and squinted through the rain.

What was she supposed to say?

"I hated you."

Next to her, she felt him stiffen up, but she ignored it. If he got uncomfortable, he could leave. She had more right to be here anyway.

"I hated you. You got everything. Dad always loved you more than me; mom was obsessed. I remember you used to complain about how she always picked on you; how she was always telling you what you should wear and how you should do your hair and I remember wanting to tell you that I'd give _anything_ to have mom pay attention to me like that. You didn't get it, though. I guess I can't blame you, you were just a kid. You probably thought they loved _me_ more. If they did, why'd they send me to boarding school and keep you home? How was that even slightly fair?"

Overhead, thunder clapped sharply but neither of them flinched; like they had been expecting it.

It was oddly fitting, in a way.

He still didn't say anything and she went on; his silence a magnet.

"You never wrote to me, you know. Not once. You called me, but all you did was complain about everything. Why the _fuck_ did you never ask me how I was? How is that fair? Everyone loved you and you _never_ saw it. You were so blind; I could tell over the phone and you couldn't even see it. If you had just stopped for a second and thought about it, maybe you'd be alive, you stupid bitch."

There was another flinch, but she was too far gone; too angry to care.

"I hated you. I still hate you. I hate everything that you were; everything you still are. I hate the way mom mourns over you; I hate the way dad hasn't called once in two years; I hate that everyone still looks at me like your little sister. I can't wait till I'm done high school and I can move away from this shithole. Congratulations, you always wanted Newport wrapped around your finger and you have it. It won't ever be mine; no one here will ever look at me like they did to you. You were a stupid, selfish bitch and I hate that you left me."

He didn't look at her; didn't say anything; didn't take his eyes off the grave.

"How the _hell_ could you leave me? How the hell could you do that to me? I'm sixteen; I shouldn't have to live with this. I should be happy. I should get to have a life and friends and be normal. I should be able to be a teenager. I never came to see you before, you know. I don't know why I came now, except to say that I will never get a normal life because of you. Mom will always look at me and see you; dad won't ever call again. I _hate_ you."

Her mouth went dry as she ran out of words and she felt, for the first time in two years, that knot in her chest loosen ever so slightly.

He seemed to know she was done, too, because he finally turned to her.

"You done?"

"I think so."

"Feel better?"

"A little."

"Good." He reached up and brushed a piece of hair off her forehead. "Come on, I'll buy you ice cream."

"It's like, sixty degrees out and raining."

"Fine, hot chocolate, then," he shrugged, putting an arm around her shoulder, apparently uncaring that she was soaked and getting him wet.

"Don't you want to say anything?" she asked lowly, glancing at the grave.

"I've said everything I need to," he answered and she didn't ask him what he meant. "Come on."

He led her through the cemetery, past the granite markers glistening with rain, their shoes muddied from the unpaved paths. He led her through the rain, his black umbrella shielding her, his arm strong and warm around her shoulders. He led her through the rain, to his car, where it was warm and calm and safe and they drove in silence, with only the sound of the storm and the hum of the car to break it.

She stared at the graves as they drove past; the church in front, it's looming cross terrifying and comforting at the same time.

Happy anniversary.

Goodbye.

_

* * *

_

review


	24. Bunny

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Lunarmoon92

_Prompt: Flapjacks and babysitting_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Impacilla Carpisung' by The Ting Tings, off the album 'We Started Nothing'_

_Notes: Please remember that I absolutely suck at mostly dialogue stories, which is why I don't do it a lot. So I hope this is clear/not confusing/not stupid._

* * *

"**Bunny"**

"Seth," she hissed, pacing, clutching the phone to her ear. "I have a problem."

"You have many," he deadpanned back and she tried to glare through the phone.

"I'm serious, Seth. Ryan is going to _kill_ me, you've got to come over here."

"Look, I just got myself a nice bowl of Fruit Loops and the limited edition _Akira_. I'm busy."

"No, you're not," she warned. "If Ryan learns you're at home, he'll know you lied to him."

There was silence for a few seconds, before an annoyed sigh.

"Fine, I'll be over in a little."

Twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds later, there was a knock on the door.

"Thank God," she groaned, twisting the door knob and admitting Seth.

"Alright, Taylor, what's this about?"

She bit her lip and fidgeted with her hands for a few seconds before letting out a pathetic moan. "I lost Flapjacks!"

"You _lost_ Flapjacks? Taylor!"

"I know!" she whined, bringing her hands to her face. "Ryan's gonna kill me!"

"All you had to do was watch him for like, three hours!"

"Hey!" she twisted toward him violently, holding out a finger in accusation, "he asked _you_ to do it first and you told him you were busy all day. So do not get all accusation-y at me and help me look for him."

"When did you last see him?"

"I don't know, lunch?"

"Did you eat him?"

"Yes, Seth, I ate a bunny and didn't notice the fur or the blood or the tiny bunny squealing."

"Look, I'm just trying to help you, don't get snippety with me."

"Fine, just help me look for him."

They started searching the guest room at Julie's, finally making their way out into the hall, then downstairs.

"You think he could've gotten this far?" Seth asked, making a wheezing groan as he straightened from looking under a the kitchen table. "I don't think my back can handle this."

"Alright, grandpa," she turned to face him and pouted. "Then what do we do?"

"I dunno."

They heard the front door open and shut and Ryan's voice call from the foyer.

"Alright," Seth breathed, "new plan. I'll keep looking for Flapjacks down here and you take Ryan upstairs and you turn on some Journey and you two go at it like you do."

"That might work."

"Taylor."

They both turned around to where Ryan stood in the doorway.

"Ryan!" she greeted loudly, grinning brightly.

"Seth, what are you doing here?"

"Me?" Seth's eyes went wide and he shrugged, scratching at his ear. "Nothing."

Ryan's right eyebrow lifted slightly, but he said nothing.

"Seth just stopped over to borrow a spatula," Taylor tried, getting an eye roll from Seth and a blank stare from Ryan.

There was silence in the room, until Seth cracked.

"I can't do this, we have to tell him."

"Shut up, Seth," she hissed venomously, glaring. "Stick to the plan!"

"I can't!" Seth whispered back, "he's like a wizard with words!"

"He's not saying anything!"

"Fine, silences, then!"

"Tell me what?" Ryan's monotone voice broke through their attempt at stealth.

"You don't have anything sharp on you, right?" Seth fidgeted, stepping back a bit. "No pocket knives or anything?"

"What's going on?"

"Alright, please don't be mad," Seth winced, still shifting back a bit more. "But-"

"Seth and I are having an affair!" Taylor cut in and the two boys looked at her.

"_What_?" Seth near squealed, eyes widening and he stumbled away from Ryan. "We're not," he turned to his brother.

"You're having an affair?" Ryan sighed, eyes closing for a moment.

"No!" Seth protested before looking over at Taylor. "Why would you say that? How is that helping?"

"Well, it's better than the other thing!"

"How is that better?"

"Well it's the same!"

"No it's not!"

"Hey," Ryan cut in, sighing. "If you two are gonna be doing this for a while, I'm gonna go upstairs and take a bunch of pills."

"Look, man," Seth picked at his nails.

"No, Seth, I should tell him."

"Yes, you should."

"Oh, do _not_ start with me…"

"Would one of you just tell me?"

Taylor took a deep, calming breath. "I lost Flapjacks."

"How did you _lose_ Flapjacks?"

"That's what I said," Seth cut in traitorously. "This is all her fault!"

"Didn't you say you were busy all day?" Ryan turned to him and his brother backed up another step.

"Ha!" Taylor snapped.

"But don't think you're off the hook for losing Flapjacks," he turned back to her. "What happened?"

"I was watching TV," she lamented, pouting. "And the next thing I know, Flapjacks is gone."

"What could've been so important that you forgot you were supposed to be babysitting him?"

"What?" she asked innocently, widening her eyes.

"What were you watching that was so damn important?"

"… Jerry Springer," she mumbled, averting her eyes.

"Oh, fantastic."

"I'm sorry!" she pouted. "I'll make it up to you! Like Seth and I were just talking about; lots of Journey and sweaty fun time. I'll even do that thing you like, with the scarves."

"Scarves?" Seth recoiled a bit, making a face.

"Seth, leave."

"Are we doing the scarf thing now?" Taylor asked, tilting her head.

"No, I just don't feel like dealing with both of you right now, and he's the least guilty."

"Score!" Seth gloated and ran out of the kitchen and they both heard the door open and close.

"Ryan, I'm so sorry!" she tried again. He didn't say anything and walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, letting his head drop into his hands. She followed him out, wringing her hands. "Oh God, I told you I shouldn't babysit. I'm so sorry! He's probably still in here, I'll look for him, I promise…"

She was about to continue when a tiny white ball of fur crept out from under a hutch. It scampered across the rug, took a leap onto the couch and curled up in Ryan's lap.

Ryan's head rose and he stared down at the rabbit, then looked up at Taylor. "I guess I found him."

She pursed her lips, but couldn't contain the squeal. "Oh my God!" she gushed, putting a hand over her heart, "that is the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life!"

He shrugged in embarrassment and ducked his head as she giggled and sat on the couch next to him.

"So you forgive me?" she said as innocently as she could, laying her hand on his leg for good measure.

Flapjacks sniffed at it before deciding she wasn't a threat.

"Fine. But you're not allowed to babysit Flapjacks anymore."

"Deal," she agreed readily. "Now, we have four days left before spring break ends and I have to fly back to France. Why don't we do something… _fun_."

He turned to look at her and quirked an eyebrow suggestively.

"You wanna go torture Seth for lying to me?"

"Totally."

_

* * *

_

review


	25. Fish

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: ChrisUSA

_Prompt: Kirsten and naked Ryan_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Cassius' by The Foals, off the album 'Antidotes'_

_Notes: To meg: the chapters don't make sense because it's not supposed to be a continuous storyline. This is a collection of one-shots, completely unrelated to one another (for the most part, I guess you could connect the ones that make sense). To everyone: don't forget, you guys can always give me more prompts! I love getting them… _

* * *

"**Fish"**

Oh, Seth was going to die.

Slowly and painfully, if he had his druthers.

Fuck, what was he supposed to do now? Seriously? Seth was going to _die_.

Well, he'd have to find his clothes first; then he could plan out Seth's slow, torturous murder.

Shit.

He paced the bathroom, running his hand through his hair, trying to think how it'd come to this.

The pranks had started off small; little things. Seth had bragged one too many times about how great he was at GTA – how Ryan should be better.

Cause he stole a car once, get it?

So during lunch, he'd retaliated by telling Summer about the time Seth'd tripped over a stool in Barnes and Noble and knocked over a display of coffee. Summer had laughed and that – he decided – was the beginning of this little _thing_.

To get back at him, Seth had told Marissa that he had nightmares. He'd denied it, of course – even if it was true. He had nightmares sometimes about his dad (although to be honest, he doubted Seth knew what the nightmares were _about_) but still. Seth had caught him one time when he'd fallen asleep on the couch and woke up shaking. His brother probably just thought he was having a dream about clowns – something that apparently haunted Seth's own dreams.

Alright, maybe _that_ was where the pranks stared.

He'd been _pissed_; especially because Marissa kept making a big deal out of it, cooing over him and looking upset. So the next day at school, he took the wheels off Seth's skateboard and put them in the water polo locker room.

After getting Gatorade poured in his hair while retrieving his wheels, Seth had retaliated by stealing the blinds out of the pool house, so you could see right in. He'd had to go to Kirsten and make up some lame excuse about where his blinds went – if he told her the truth, he'd have to admit to the wheel-stealing.

That night he stole Captain Oats and coated him in green paint. It took Seth a little under three hours to chip all the paint off without damaging him, and even after that, he still had some streaks. Seth hadn't been amused.

So he guessed he shouldn't have been surprised when he came out of the shower and found his towels missing. Fuck Seth, the little bastard. But he'd sighed and just went out to the main pool house and noted that his curtains were – again – missing, as were his bed sheets. Luckily, Sandy and Kirsten were out at lunch, so he'd just hurried over to his dresser.

Which was empty.

Every drawer, every single piece of clothing gone.

Oh, Seth was going to _die_.

So now he was in the bathroom because at least no one could see him from there. He had nothing to wear, no towels to cover him and he didn't even have any sheets. The only thing in the entire pool house that would provide enough cover – because the hand towels didn't even come _close_ – was the shower curtain.

He pulled the stupid thing down and cursed his luck. He hadn't wanted to push Kirsten – he'd only been here for two months – so he hadn't asked again for her to change the shower curtains. So that was how he went outside – wrapped in plastic curtains covered with stupid bright orange and yellow fish.

The back door was locked.

Seth was going to die; slowly, with lots of blood. Maybe a few screams.

He shut his eyes and squared his shoulders before going around the house. The Rover was in the drive and he felt his stomach drop.

No, it was cool; he'd use it to his advantage. The Cohens being home meant the front door was mostly unlocked and from there, it was only a few steps to the stairs and up to Seth's room.

Yeah, going through the front door was better than having to go through the kitchen.

He ducked behind a hedge before making for the door, so intent on getting to it that he didn't see Kirsten until she shut the Rover door.

"_Ryan_?" she called in surprise and he stopped dead, blood freezing in his veins. "What are you _wearing_?"

Oh God, he wished the ground would just open up and swallow him whole.

"Ummm," he turned slightly to her, tightening his grip on the clear-and-bright-fish plastic; one hand moving to cover his crotch – even though there were a few strategically placed fish over the spot.

"Inside," she directed, eyes wide and focused solely on his face. "Just… inside." He dropped his head and practically _ran_ into the house. He heard Sandy moving around in the kitchen, but Kirsten paused in the living room. "Alright, what in the world is going on?"

He wondered how he was supposed to explain this – walking out in front of the house wearing only a clear plastic sheet with orange and yellow fishes covering his naughty bits.

"You see," he started, cursing himself when his voice wavered and broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I was taking a shower… and I got out… and then Seth…"

"Say no more," she held up her hand and closed her eyes. "Go… get dressed or find something _better_ and then you tell Seth that Sandy and I would like to see both of you in the kitchen."

He was pretty sure that was the fastest he'd ever gotten up the stairs.

He didn't bother knocking; just slammed Seth's door open.

"Oh, _dude!_"Seth hissed, rolling away and covering his head.

"I'm gonna fucking _murder_ you," he growled, storming over to the pile of clothes, sheets, and curtains in the corner of Seth's room. "I mean it this time. Blood everywhere. They'll never find your head."

"Come on, it's funny," Seth shrugged, sitting up finally.

He pulled on a pair of boxers and jeans, then threw a t-shirt on. "Not funny. And your mom wants to talk to us."

"What? Seriously?"

"Yeah, she caught me sneaking in. She wants to talk to us in the kitchen."

"Man, today sucks," Seth whined, rolling off the bed. "I'm getting in trouble. I think seeing… _you_ all naked and stuff should be punishment enough."

He snorted, following his brother down the stairs. "Jealous?"

Seth froze halfway down and turned, scoffing. "_No_."

He grinned and pushed at the boy's shoulder, making him stumble down the stairs. "Riiight... oh, and by the way, I'm so telling Kirsten this is all your fault."

"Aw, crap..."

_

* * *

_

review


	26. Sick

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Spuffyshipper

_Prompt: Ryan calls Sandy and Kirsten by mom and dad_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'Science Killer' by The Black Angels, off the album 'Directions to See A Ghost'_

_Notes: Um, so most likely this will make no sense, but I don't think it's really supposed to. Sorry, you guys should know by now how much I like confusing people. And also, don't forget to keep giving me prompts if you have them!_

* * *

"**Sick"**

Black.

Head, hurts.

Taste of vomit, throat burning, lips chapped, raw.

Black.

Awake?

In? Out?

Alive?

Yes, alive.

Black.

Voices, two.

Words, scared.

Heavy weight, sinking mattress.

Alright?

No, not alright.

Can't talk.

Can't move.

Not alright.

Voices, frightened. Young.

Children.

Black.

Cool hand.

Cool cloth. Wet.

Water, trickling down, over temple, into hair.

Cool.

Voice, soothing.

Can't hear; can't understand.

Can't move.

Muscles won't respond.

In? Out?

Black.

In.

Voice, soothing.

Eyes open; bright lights.

Hurts.

Voice, curious.

Eyes open; ignore pain.

Voice; mother.

Words?

Concentrate.

"…feeling? What happened? Can I…"

Fade.

Black.

Voices, more.

Mother; children?

Concentrate.

"…-ather's going to be ok. He's just sick, he needs sleep."

"Daddy never gets sick."

Never.

Superman.

Not anymore.

"You two go with Uncle Seth and Aunt Summer while your dad rests."

Go.

Don't see. Don't watch.

Superman.

Not anymore.

Little feet; closing doors.

"Ryan? Ryan, honey, are you awake?"

Yes. Awake. Alive? Yes.

Ok? No.

"Come on, open your eyes."

Light; pain.

"Hey there." Soft voice, cool hand.

Mother.

Open mouth.

Voice won't work. Lips split; bleed.

"Shh, don't talk. Just rest."

Cool hand, worried voice.

"I called the doctor, he's going to be over in a little. We didn't want to move you."

Moving; bad.

Head; pounding.

"Just go to sleep, honey."

Ok.

Black.

Voice; unfamiliar.

Weight; bed dipping. Rough hand; checking pulse.

Eyelid opened; bright light; repeat.

Hurts.

Throat raw; lips chapped; dried blood.

Hurts.

Voices; can't hear; can't understand.

Unfamiliar.

And familiar.

Mother?

Father?

Concentrate.

"-orried. His kids called us because they couldn't wake him up. We came over and found him like this."

Father.

"He'll be ok, right? He's ok. He's always ok."

Mother.

"He'll be fine, eventually. Make sure he stays put and I'll give you the prescriptions. Someone needs to stay with him and make sure he takes the medication on time, and to make sure he doesn't worsen."

"His wife's out on a business trip. She's coming home as soon as she can get the next flight out."

"I'll stay with him."

Movement.

Bodies gone.

Mom? Dad?

Don't go.

Don't.

Open eyes; light; hurts.

Sit up?

Muscles don't work.

Need to work.

Don't go.

Up.

Head, room, spinning. Stomach, spinning.

Get up.

Don't go.

"Ryan?"

Mother.

"What are you doing? Didn't you hear the doctor? Lay down."

Hands on shoulders, pushing. Can't fight.

"Sandy's going to get you your medicine, ok? The kids are with Seth and Summer, so you don't have to worry about them. Just rest, get better."

Better?

What does better feel like?

"Sleep, honey."

Ok, mom.

Black.

Voices, soft, familiar.

Mom and dad.

Eyes open; less pain.

"Hey, kiddo, how're you feeling?"

Bad. Better.

You came back.

Can't make throat work; voice gone.

"Don't try to talk, ok? The doctor said your throat was a mess."

"Let's give him the medicine now, while he's awake."

Cold liquid, bitter taste. Throat hurts; can't swallow.

Hurts, hurts, hurts.

"That's it, come on."

Mother; cooing.

Can't swallow; like a baby.

Cool hand, rubbing back.

Swallow.

"Alright, you should rest again. Lay back down."

"Maybe I should go check up on the kids?"

No. Don't go. Dad.

"I guess. I should call Julie and Frank, I hear he's been freaking out."

No. No, don't go.

Weight off bed, move toward door.

"No."

Stop, pause.

"Don't try to talk, Ryan."

"Don't go."

Pause.

"Honey, we should call…"

"No."

Pause.

"Don't go."

"Alright, ok, honey, we'll stay."

Soothing, worried. Mother.

Chairs moving closer. Sitting.

Lay down, close eyes.

"We're here, kiddo."

"Thanks, mom, dad."

Silence.

Rough hand, grip own, tight.

"You're welcome, honey."

Voice choked. Crying? Why?

Don't cry.

Stay.

Mom.

Dad.

_

* * *

_

review


	27. Blue

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Faulty Cameras

_Prompt: Dark Blue_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Hallelujah' by Jeff Buckley, off the album 'Grace'_

_Notes: I'm actually really proud of this… _

* * *

"**Blue"**

She wasn't scared.

She should be panicking, right? But she wasn't. Maybe that was because her body had gone numb; her vision blurred; sounds muffled.

She was dying.

Above her, he was talking, most likely telling her it would be ok. She couldn't hear him and she couldn't respond, but she wanted to tell him not to bother. He was talking to her, trying to keep her with him; trying to keep her awake.

Keep her alive.

It didn't matter.

She wasn't scared. There was no fear.

There was regret, though.

That she wouldn't get to see her dad again before she went. That she wouldn't get to tell Kaitlin not to be an idiot, like she was. That she wouldn't get to tell her mom she loved her; despite all their differences, despite all the fights.

She wouldn't get to talk to Summer again; thank her for everything she'd ever done. For putting up with her drama, for listening, for helping her when she needed it.

She wouldn't get to tell Ryan how much she loved him. They hadn't dated in so long, she hoped he knew. Because she did – with every labored breath she took, with every second her world got darker, she loved him. She wished she could speak; tell him not to worry. She wanted to tell him to move on; have a life; be happy; he deserved it. She wished she could tell him not to feel guilty – this was so far from his fault. But she couldn't though, get her mouth to work; her tongue to follow her brain's commands. She could see it in his eyes – he was going to blame himself and she couldn't do anything to stop it.

But somewhere, under the regret, there was something else. Something almost like relief.

She was dying.

There was a sense of weightlessness; a sense of acceptance. She was dying and there was nothing she could do about it. So even though she wished she could see her family again, her friends again, there was something in her that was just… _happy_.

No more drama, no more pain, no more hopelessness.

She wouldn't ever have to worry about another boy; her appearance; her future.

She wouldn't have to face rehab.

She wasn't stupid; she knew she had a problem. Her sick dependence on alcohol; she knew it was a problem. That summer Kirsten had been sent to rehab; that's what clued her in.

The only reason she got away with it was because she was eighteen. Everyone was reluctant to admit a _kid_ had that kind of problem. But she did, and in the back of her mind, she always knew that one day, it would catch up with her.

But she wouldn't have to worry about that anymore.

She could stop hurting the people she cared about; she could stop going through life acting one way and having her head scream at her for it. She could stop screwing up everyone's life.

Just this one, final act of selfishness.

Dying.

She would get to slip off into oblivion and everyone else would have to deal; pick up the pieces of her life, one last time.

She wondered how everyone would react.

How would her mom take it?

How would dad?

Kaitlin?

Summer?

Ryan?

_Oh Ryan_.

He was crying; she'd never seen him cry, not once in the three years she'd known him. He never once cried and she wished with all her heart she couldn't see it now. This wasn't how she wanted to go, so instead she looked past the glaze over his eyes and focused on the blue.

And then she was there; swimming in it; swimming in blue. Everything else was gone; she couldn't see him anymore, she couldn't smell her own burning hair, couldn't taste blood, couldn't hear the vague buzz in her ears, couldn't feel the coldness seeping into her limbs.

She was in an endless expanse of blue.

And she was safe.

_

* * *

_

review


	28. Books

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Avecia

_Prompt: books_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'After the Bombs' by The Decemberists, off the album 'The Crane Wife'_

_Notes: Oh my, I got a little poetic at the end there… well, about as poetic as I can get. I'm not very rhyme-y. Or poetic. I am, however, apparently filled with angst and woe. Also note that this idea came to me at 2:35 in the morning and I finished it at 2:56. So thank you, Ave, for providing me with more insomnia fodder._

* * *

"**Books"**

She had so many _books_.

Lining her room, filling her bag, littering her car.

They were everywhere, and it seemed like she barely even knew they existed – like they were just such a given; like it would be strange if they _weren't_ there. Like somehow, the universe wouldn't make sense unless there was a book within five feet of her at all times.

It was – if he let himself be completely honest – a little intimidating.

He knew he wasn't _stupid_ – look at his test scores. But he wasn't as widely read as some people, he knew that. Blame it on his upbringing – you didn't really want to be _known_ as 'the freak who read a lot' back in Chino – or his lack of interest – honestly, you could get the same things from TV, except the peace that came from silence. So yes, he read, just not – it seemed – the extent that she did.

He didn't mind the books, at least not the ones that made her bag so damned heavy when he offered to carry it around the halls, or the ones in her car that made it impossible to sit comfortably in her car because he was constantly fearful that he was stepping on one.

No.

It was the ones in her bedroom that freaked him out.

He was cool in the pool house – when they were there, he was fine. He could kiss her; lay her down; get on top of her; let his hand travel up, under her shirt… until she stopped him, at least.

But in her room?

No, he totally couldn't handle that.

Because he always felt like the books were _watching_ him – judging him.

_Why are you with her?_ _Just look at her._

And they were right.

What was he doing with her? She was bright, funny, completely innocent for someone so smart. He could handle all that; he wasn't some asshole that couldn't deal with the girl being smarter than he was. He knew she was smarter – it was one of the things that made him like her. It wasn't any of that holding him back. It wasn't even the lack of sex – her inability to even get the least bit naked around him. He understood – to an extent, he _was_ male after all. He got that she was a virgin, that she wasn't ready for sex yet. And it's not like celibacy was a new concept or something – in fact, Newport seemed to be programming him for monkhood.

No, it wasn't any of those things.

Well, not _individually_.

But added all together…

She was perfect.

And she was _stable_.

Oh, God forbid he have a normal relationship, with a stable girl. God forbid he not have the stabbing guilt, the constant worry, the feelings of loss.

He knew he was being stupid; he just _knew_ it.

And sure, he _tried_ to rationalize that she did have problems – all that crap with her mom and Cal… That was a problem, right? She cried over it, right? She was conflicted?

But she didn't try to overdose, she didn't lash out, she didn't yell.

She handled it – on a whole – like any normal person would, finding out their entire life had been a lie.

But God forbid he be normal; his life be easy.

He was just so pissed off at himself – especially because she was leaving.

He didn't blame her, for not being able to handle all this. For not wanting to be Caleb Nichol's daughter. He didn't blame her for not wanting the drama of family dinners, holidays, parties. He didn't blame her for not wanting the notoriety, the burden on her and her mother's relationship.

She was leaving for a perfectly normal, rational reason.

And he was relieved.

Because God forbid he have stability.

That wasn't good enough for him. It's like her books said.

_What are you doing with her?_

She didn't punish him, that's what it came down to. Leaving Trey to face jail alone; letting his mom leave him with a new family… He'd abandoned his whole family, under the pretense that _they_ abandoned _him_. It's like everyone said.

_Oh, poor Ryan, his brother got him arrested._ _Oh, poor Ryan, his mom ran away_.

No one said anything about _his_ part in all of it.

_Oh, poor Trey, in jail while his accomplice goes free. Oh, poor Dawn, knowing her son doesn't want her anymore._

He didn't deserve normal. He didn't deserve stability.

He didn't _want_ it.

"I guess this is goodbye," she whispered, shifting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, looking at her feet.

"Yeah," he whispered back; just as awkward – trying _not_ to feel relieved; trying _not_ to feel regret. His brain should just _pick_ a side – relief or regret. This whole back and forth was getting exhausting.

"Here," she said suddenly, swinging her bag to the front and reaching in. She pulled out a small, leather-bound book and handed it to him. "It's Robert Frost… _Mountain Interval_. It's poetry; I'm not sure you even read poetry, but it reminded me of you."

"Thanks," he said, taking the book and rubbing the back of his neck – not sure how to take that.

She seemed to acknowledge his confusion, smiling at him, sadly, as if she sensed his dilemma; his hesitance at her leaving; his relief.

"Two roads," she started, voice low and cracking, sad and heavy with lost possibilities, "two roads diverged in a wood, and I…" she smiled up at him again, "I took the one less traveled by."

"And that has made all the difference," he recited.

She said nothing else and she turned from him and walked away.

Oh, but _she_ was the road he should have picked – the clear road, the one more traveled. Normal, stable, happy.

But he… he chose the road less traveled by – harsh, brutal, hard.

And that has made all the difference.

But who said it was a good difference?

_Oh lost hope._

_Oh ignored possibilities._

_Oh wild path, that he had chosen._

It would destroy him one day.

_

* * *

_

review


	29. Theft

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Azrael

_Prompt: Theft_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Was It You?' by Spoon, off the album 'Gimme Fiction'_

_Notes: Don't ask… just… don't._

* * *

"**Theft"**

_The sky was dark, rain pelting against the windows as I sat in my makeshift office. I needed to do some fast thinking; before the thief got away. Trouble was, I had seven suspects and no clues, nothing to go on but my eyes and my ears and my intuition._

_This was going to be tough._

...

I started off with the lady of the house; if anyone were to know anything, it'd be her. She was a broad to watch out for; she'd as soon con you as look at you, and that's if you're lucky.

She sat in the chair across from me, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap. "What's this all about?" she demanded with authority that was only half false bravado.

"Never mind that," I waved her off. "The less you know, the better."

"Well, that's not at all suspicious," she shot back, keeping her voice bored. She's interested, though, even if she doesn't want to show it.

"I called you in here, Ms. Cooper," I began and she quirked an eyebrow at me, "to clear you."

"Clear me?" she asked. "Clear me of what?" When I shake my head at her, she sighed. "Right, 'the less I know'."

"All I need from you is what you've done today."

"Alright," she drawled, narrowing her eyes. "I woke up…"

"At what time? Please, be specific, Ms. Cooper."

"I woke up at six-thirty. I ate breakfast." She held up a finger before I could ask, and continued on. "Orange juice and cereal. Lucky Charms. With milk. I had the last bowl. Then I went to the NewMatch office and talked to the surveyor. Do you need to know the specifics of rebuilding?"

"No, thank you, Ms. Cooper. You may go."

"Alright."

...

_Rain lashed against the window, ribbons of water running down its clear surface. So far I had nothing, but I was only one suspect in. I figured it was best to question the daughter next, just in case they were working together. I couldn't give them time to get their stories straight._

...

"So what's this all about? Mom just told me you were being – quote – 'really creepy'."

"I just want to ask you some questions, Miss Cooper," I said, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the desk. She snorted when I used her last name, but leaned back in the chair and folded her arms. "Tell me, what did you do this morning? And please, be as specific as possible."

"This morning?" She narrowed her eyes at me in a perfect mirror of her mother. "Why? What does my mom think I did?"

"Nothing. Please, Miss Cooper, your morning?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes, but answered. "I was out 'til one and I slept 'til ten. Then I woke up and you said you needed to talk to me."

"So you just got up and came here?" I questioned, leaning forward further. "You didn't stop to eat breakfast or talk to anyone?"

"Nope." There was a challenge in her eyes, but I let it go, dismissing her with a wave of my hand.

...

_The Coopers could be in it together, but now I think they're not. Miss Cooper made it very clear with her comment; the one about her mother wanting to know what she'd been doing last night. These dames may be guilty, but I'm not sure it's for the crime I'm investigating._

...

"Took you a while to get in here," I challenged the boy as he sat in the chair opposite of me.

"Yeah, I was out running so I needed a shower," he shrugged, seemingly unaware of any wrongdoing that had occurred here. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering what you were doing this morning?" I made nice with the boy; I didn't want to rile him up. I needed to keep him talking before he figured out something was wrong and closed up.

"Um, I don't think I have anything planned. Why? Did you wanna do something?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he intentionally misinterpret the question or was it simply an innocent mistake? "Maybe. But I mean before this, what did you do?"

"Uh, I went for a run," he looked at me like I was crazy.

"In the rain?" I challenged, finding a flaw in his story.

"Yeah. I got up at five so I could beat it."

The rain hadn't started until seven, so that part of his alibi checked out. "Did you eat breakfast?"

"Yeah, Taylor made me eggs after I got back."

"And what time was that?"

"Seven, maybe? I dunno, but Julie was there while Taylor was cooking."

I nod, tapping my fingers on the desk. His story is all clear, except for one thing. "So you woke up at five, ate breakfast at seven, and you didn't take a shower until now? Three and a half hours later?"

His eyes widened in panic and he averted his gaze. Aha! I'd caught him; the culprit was right in my hands. Or at least I thought so, until he spoke again.

"Taylor and I… hung out before I took my shower," he mumbled to the floor.

...

_Three suspects down and little to go on. So far Mr. Atwood's story coincided with Ms. Cooper's. The other Miss Cooper's hasn't had any witnesses, but there's no reason for me to think she's the one. I paced my makeshift office before letting the next one enter._

...

"Good morning," she smiled brightly at me and sat down in the offered chair.

"Miss Townsend," I greeted cheerfully, altering my approach to fit my needs. "Good morning."

"Ryan said you wanted to talk to me?" she asked warily, cheeks flushing red. "About what I did this morning?"

"Yes, in detail, please." I gestured for her to talk, but she gaped at me.

"In _detail_?" she whispered in horror, flushing bright red.

"What time did you wake up, what did you have for breakfast," I prompted and she sighed in relief.

"I woke up around seven, I think. Ryan was out running, so I wanted to make him breakfast."

"And did you?"

"Eggs and bacon, with coffee. Black. I talked to Julie a bit; she had to go talk to someone about rebuilding the NewMatch office after the earthquake."

"And then what did you do?"

"Um… Ryan and I… watched TV in his room for a couple hours…" Her story was full of lies, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the truth was. They hadn't been watching TV – had they been planning the crime? "Then he went to take a shower and I came downstairs to watch TV with Kirsten. Then you called me in here."

"Thank you, Miss Townsend."

...

_So far Ms. Cooper's story was strong, no holes. Miss Townsend and Mr. Atwood's stories check out, too, but they could be in on it together. The only solution was to wait and interview the others._

...

She was a classy dame; beautiful. She always had been, and I reminded myself not to get distracted by it. She could be dangerous, that I knew. Her beauty was merely a front, covering the ruthless woman underneath.

"What's going on?" she asked with a smile, one hand resting on her stomach, bulging with child.

"Kirsten," I addressed her by her first name; we knew each other well enough for that. "Could you just tell me what you've done today?"

"Well, I was supposed to go to NewMatch, but Julie said she'd go, since she's less pregnant. So I slept in, but you know that. Then I got up and had breakfast, then I watched TV with Taylor."

"What did you have for breakfast?" I asked casually and she smiled at me.

"Lucky Charms."

"Thank you."

...

_Only two more suspects to question. I had to watch out for these two, they could be in cahoots. They did everything together, so it only made sense to question them together._

...

"What's goin' on, daddy-o?"

"Yeah, this is _totally_ cutting into our _Briefcase or No Briefcase_ time."

I observed the two for a while, watching for any signs of guilt. "I was just wondering," I started, "what you two did this morning."

"Well," the boy started, trying to rub some orange dust off his shirt, "we got up, Summer made some Toaster Strudel."

"Yeah, then Jerry Springer came on, and since _BONB_ doesn't come on till eleven, we watched that."

"Then you called," the boy finished for his girlfriend, who nodded.

I was right, they were a team, working in tandem. But from the state of their dress and their laid back attitude, I knew it wasn't them.

"Alright, thank you," I nodded at them, and they nodded back.

...

_That was it, all my suspects. And it may seem like I hadn't gotten any closer to identifying the suspect, but I had. I knew the culprit, and now it was just a matter of justice._

...

"Alright," Ms. Cooper huffed, "what's this all about."

"Uh, yeah, _BONB_ is on right now."

"Yeah, and it may be a rerun, but I kinda forget what happened, so I need to see it again."

"Please, people," I held up my hands to silence the room. I brought them all to the kitchen – the scene of the crime.

"Sandy," Mr. Atwood started, "what's going on?" Next to him, Miss Townsend nodded, still blushing slightly.

"A crime," I said, coming out with it finally. "A theft."

"A theft?" Miss Cooper rolled her eyes and sighed. "Dude, this is _so_ lame."

"I've questioned you all," I reminded them, ignoring the young girl's outburst. "And all of your stories check out, except one." There was looks all around, some confused, some accusing. "I'll start at the beginning."

"Please do," Ms. Cooper sighed.

"At one o'clock this morning, the young Miss Cooper comes in from a night out with – I assume – the Ward boys." At this, the girl nodded, and her mother shot her a look, but I continued before she could say anything. "Then at five, Mr. Atwood wakes up to go for a run, before the rain starts." A nod from the boy I had adopted, and I continued. "Seven is when things really start to roll. Miss Townsend wakes and goes downstairs to make breakfast, where she meets Ms. Cooper. Miss Townsend made eggs and bacon while Ms. Cooper had the last bowl of Lucky Charms."

At that point I knew I had the culprit, and the culprit knew it too.

"Mr. Atwood arrives home," I continued, "to eat and Ms. Cooper leaves for NewMatch. Then Miss Townsend and Mr. Atwood leave the kitchen. At some point around this time, Miss Roberts and my son wake up and have Toaster Strudel in their room and watch Jerry Springer. Also around this time, my lovely wife wakes up and comes downstairs to have breakfast." The blonde met my eyes and I smiled at her. "She told me she had a bowl of Lucky Charms but I know from Ms. Cooper, whose story is corroborated by that of Miss Townsend, that the last bowl of Lucky Charms had already been eaten."

"Your point?" Ms. Cooper asked, getting impatient.

"My point," I informed them all, staring at my wife. "Is that Kirsten was lying. So I know it was you who ate my last bagel."

"Fine," the blonde sighed, "you caught me."

"What?" Mr. Atwood asked, looking over at me. "That's what this is about?"

"Are you _serious?_" Miss Cooper lamented, standing up and leaving the room.

"Yeah, I'm going up to watch TV," Miss Roberts stood and left, followed by my son.

"I wish I could drink," Ms. Cooper muttered and left as well.

"We're going," Mr. Atwood stood and took his girlfriend's elbow, pulling her out of the room.

"I don't get it," the girl protested as they left, "couldn't he just _ask_ us if we ate his bagel?"

Finally it was just me and her – my wife, the thief.

"So what are you planning on doing with me, officer?" she mocked, quirking her eyebrow.

I paused and looked at her.

Damn.

I should have thought of a consequence.

_

* * *

_

review


	30. Lights

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: iris

_Prompt: neon lights_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Wolf Like Me' by TV on the Radio, off the album, 'Return to Cookie Mountain'_

_Notes: Ooh, lots of updates today; first Bloom, now this. Probably because I'm celebrating the completion of my first midterm... Btw, this is totally how I want to do it… You'll see what I mean when you read._

* * *

"**Lights"**

He walked with his head tilted up, mouth open, eyes wide.

Everything here was so _bright_.

"Seth," his girlfriend hissed, "you look like an idiot."

"There are so many _lights_," he breathed, head turning quickly to try and take them all in. Reds, oranges, yellows, blues – bright neon lights that called out to him: _Slot Frenzy! Live nudes here! Casino!_

"Yeah, it's Vegas," she reminded him, pulling at his arm. "Now stop acting so _tourist_-y and help me look for them. Where the hell did they go?"

"I dunno," he shrugged, stumbling a bit in his drunken stupor. "They left the casino after Taylor's machine started making noises and blinking a lot. I think they went to celebrate. Did we check their hotel room?"

"Ew," Summer giggled, leaning on him as they walked. "But maybe we should go back to the hotel anyway, I'm all dizzy."

"It's all these lights," Seth breathed again, caught up in a blinking sign that he realized – after a few minutes of intense staring – was actually a naked woman doing the can-can.

"C'mon pervo."

They stumbled back to their hotel on the Strip with minimal running into things and zero falling down. Which was – honestly – a miracle for Seth, considering him and alcohol usually led to a lot more incidents of him kissing pavement.

"Look," he pointed to a white building as they went. "An all-night chapel. We should get married."

"Please," she snorted, pulling him into the revolving door of their hotel. "That is _not_ how we're getting married. Plus, you know daddy's rule. If we get married before we graduate college, daddy will come down and _kill_ you."

"Fine, fine," he sighed back as they got into the elevator. "It was just a thought; something to do."

"Yeah, I'm not _that _drunk_."_

Their room was relatively quiet and dark, much to the disappointment of Seth.

What could he say… they were such _pretty_ lights…

They were watching TV – old reruns of _Briefcase or No Briefcase_ – when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," Seth called, not bothering to remember that they were, in fact, in a hotel in Las Vegas and not their room at Julie Cooper's, sitting in BarcaLoungers and eating Toaster Strudel, two years ago. After a few seconds and another knock, he stood up and opened the door. "Look who I found," he called over his shoulder to his girlfriend, stepping out of the way.

"Atwood, Townsend," she frowned, turning to face them.

They stepped inside and Seth stumbled back a little, making a face. "Moses, you guys reek like a winery. Or a… vodka-ery."

"Whiskey-ery," Taylor joined in, pointing at Ryan, who grinned back at her. "Mr. Macho here only drinks whiskey."

"Where were you guys?" Summer called from the hotel bed.

Taylor giggled a bit, then turned to her boyfriend. "You wanna tell them?"

"I'll let you do the honors," he slurred back chivalrously. She turned back, bit her lip, then held up her hand.

"We got married!"

"What?" Summer finally sat up, eyes wide. Seth closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head a bit to try and clear it from its alcohol-haze. But when he opened them again, the cheap little ring was still on her finger… and there was a matching one on his brother's.

"Why?" was all he could manage.

"Why not?" Taylor giggled again, eyes dilated from the alcohol. Ryan just leaned in the doorway, grinning at her with some sort of indulgent contentedness. "I mean, after I won the jackpot on that pretty machine, we went out to celebrate. And then we saw the church, with all its pretty lights, and I wanted to go in. So we did! Andddd…" she drew out dramatically, like they didn't already know the outcome, "ta-da!" Again, she held up her hand with a bright grin.

"You guys are idiots," Summer told them, turning back to the TV.

"No we're not," Taylor pouted, "Ryan, she called us idiots."

"She doesn't understand, baby," he soothed, letting her bury her head into his chest. "C'mon, let's go celebrate s'more."

"Ok," she nodded, lifting her head up to glare briefly at her friend before turning back to him. "Oh! Does our room have one of those moving beds? Like, the ones that vibrate?"

"I dunno," he frowned. "I don't think so."

"Damn," she pouted, looking around, eyes landing on Seth. "Hey! How'd you like to do us a favor and shake our bed while we have sex?"

"No," he protested, wrinkling his nose. "Not even if Joss Whedon were shakin' right along with me."

"Oooh, I _love_ Joss Whedon!" Taylor exclaimed, eyes shifting out of focus for a second. Then she turned to Ryan and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "We should have a threesome with Joss Whedon."

"Ew, no," he protested. "Maybe that Faith chick, though. Or that one, from that other one, the one with the coveralls who worked on the engine?"

"Aww," Taylor cooed, "Kaylee! We could _totally_ have a threesome with Kaylee; she's so cute!"

Ryan grinned and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her out of the room. "C'mon, we can make the bed shake on our own."

As Taylor's giggles receded down the hall, Seth shut the door and turned back to his girlfriend.

She scrunched up her face in confusion. "Do they even remember they go to school on different continents?"

"Doesn't look like it," he shrugged. "I see impending freakout from the great Kirsten and Sandy when we get back." Summer nodded to him and held up her hand.

"High five," she said, face blank.

"For what?" he asked, high fiving her anyway.

"Cause we're _so_ much smarter than them. I mean, look how mature we are: we _didn't_ get married."

"You're right," he grinned back at her, swaying slightly. Then he went to his bag, because his mouth tasted like stale alcohol and he was sure Summer wouldn't want to kiss him like that. He rooted in his bag for a few seconds before huffing in annoyance.

"What?" Summer asked, half in the process of taking off her shirt.

"I forgot my toothbrush," he sighed. "I guess I'll have to, like… use my finger or something."

_

* * *

_

review


	31. Matchmaker

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: beege

_Prompt: matchmaker_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Bim Bom' by Astrud Gilberto, off the album 'Verve Remixed 4'_

_Notes: beege, thank you SO much for this prompt. Really, this made me ridiculously happy to write. I think you know what I mean._

* * *

"**Matchmaker"**

Taylor Townsend was _bored_.

Honestly, ever since she'd gotten back to the States, it was like life had forgotten about her. Well maybe, she reasoned, this is what life _really_ was, and all that high school drama, then traveling through Korea and France, had just given her a skewed sense of the world.

Either way, she was bored, and she needed _something_ to do. When she first came to Berkeley – after divorcing Henri-Michel – she expected lots of political protests and outrage and social activism. But so far, not so much. It was so boring; she almost actually _missed_ high school.

She sighed, leaning back on the bench, eyes scanning the quad for something to peak her interest. Suddenly, her gaze caught something.

Well, more like _someone_.

Her lips curled up into a smile as plans raced through her head. She'd need to do some research first, but this looked promising.

Yes, Ryan Atwood was definitely _not_ boring.

* * *

Three grueling weeks of research, and she'd loved every second of it. Honestly, sometimes the planning was better than the actual act and usually more exciting than the result. And now that she had a problem to focus on, her life had meaning again.

Said problem was Ryan Atwood's love life – or lack thereof.

She'd been pestering Summer for almost a month now: _is he single? Why? How long has he been that way?_

Apparently, on graduation night, Ryan was driving Marissa Cooper to the airport, when that creepy guy – the one from prom – made them pull over. Ryan had, and he and the other boy got into a fight that ended with the stupid thief in the hospital. Marissa had stayed in the country to help clear Ryan's name and keep him out of trouble, but she was badly shaken.

As was her relationship with Ryan.

So now, apparently, Ryan and Marissa weren't even attempting the 'friends' thing. Actually, she'd thought that was a ridiculous concept, back in high school. They weren't friends; they never would be. It was either 'dating' or 'not talking' for them.

They'd gone with 'not talking' this time.

So now they were both here at Berkeley, and so was she.

And she'd decided to play matchmaker.

Not that she was friends with either Ryan or Marissa, but she was bored, and she did _so_ love manipulating people. So either she'd help them get together, or she'd drive them crazy trying.

Either way, she wouldn't be bored anymore.

* * *

"Marissa, hi!" She sat down at the girl's table.

"Taylor? Oh my God, you go here?"

Taylor nodded, not all that upset. She hadn't exactly told anyone yet that she'd transferred; not even Summer. Not even her mother. Oh well, no time to think about _that_.

"I was just wondering if maybe you could show me around campus, since I'm new and I don't know anyone here."

"Oh," Marissa attempted a smile, putting down her fork and nodding. "Sure."

"Great!" Taylor exclaimed perkily. "So how about tonight?"

"Why not?" Marissa relented, nodding. "Where's your dorm?"

"You know what, how about I just meet you in the dining hall?" she smiled and stood. "Say at seven?"

"Sure."

Taylor walked away, leaving a very confused Marissa behind. She needed to plan.

* * *

Six fifty, right on the dot, she congratulated herself as she walked into the dining hall. And sure enough, Ryan Atwood was sitting at a table in the corner with his friends, just like Seth had told her.

Apparently Ryan was a very methodical guy and he ate at the same time every night, whether his friends were with him or not. She liked that; she couldn't deal with frivolousness and it was nice to see someone her age with sense. So few people had it.

"Ryan!" She sat at the table uninvited, placing her giant purse on top and grinning at the – very surprised – boy.

"Taylor?" he managed finally. "Wh… I thought you were in France."

"Oh, I was, but I needed to get away from my husband, so I transferred here. I totally forgot you went here!"

"Yeah, but, wait, husband?"

"Oh, silly little thing," she laughed, waving her hands at him. "No big deal. Anyway, now I'm here and so are you. How funny!"

"Funny," he nodded, and she ignored the look on his face – confused and a little scared.

"Um," one of his friends interrupted, looking back and forth between them. "We have to go, we'll see you later, Ryan."

"Wait," Ryan called after his friends, who – with much snickering and whispering – left the table.

"Now we can catch up!" Taylor smiled standing up and moving to the seat directly across from him; facing the door.

"Catch up," he repeated, looking not at all enthused by the prospect.

"Totally. So, tell me how your life has been, Ryan Atwood."

"It's… um, good? I guess."

"You guess?" she prodded, quirking an eyebrow and giving him a smile, like they shared a secret.

"Yeah. It's good."

At that moment – six fifty-eight, she'd give Marissa points for being punctual – the girl walked in, looking around the dining hall. Taylor sent up a thank you to Buddha – her new religion, she'd decided last week – that she wouldn't have to converse with Ryan anymore. The boy was _horrible_ at it.

"Marissa!" she called, holding her hand up and waving the girl over.

Marissa started toward them, seemingly unaware of who the boy was with his back to her, but Ryan's face went dead white.

"Hey, Taylor," Marissa greeted with a smile.

"Marissa, I believe you know Ryan, right?" she smiled, gesturing at the boy who was staring intently at the faux-wood tabletop like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Hey, Ryan," Marissa whispered, not even trying to make eye contact with him.

With both of them staring at random objects, Taylor could roll her eyes and not be seen. This was so pathetic. "Marissa," she gasped, "Ryan and I were just catching up, why don't you join us?"

"I thought we were touring…" Marissa started to protest, but apparently her body had other ideas, and she sat on the offered chair.

"That can wait," Taylor waved her off. "So, Ryan was just telling me about how much he works out…"

"What?" Ryan rejoined the conversation, looking panicked. "I didn't… we weren't…" his eyes went back to the table, "…talking about that…"

Her plan worked, and Marissa's eyes automatically went to Ryan's arms, before flicking away.

Human beings were just _so_ predictable.

"Marissa," she gushed, leaning forward, "that is _such_ a gorgeous shirt." Marissa looked down at her top, and out of the corner of her eye, Taylor caught Ryan's gaze going straight for…

Yup. Predictable male.

"Thanks," Marissa spoke, finally, obviously better at handling this than her ex-boyfriend.

Hopefully soon to be boyfriend again.

Although honestly, Taylor hoped Ryan and Marissa would be stubborn about this. If they gave in too easily, her fun wouldn't last very long.

* * *

"Oh my God, Ryan, what a coincidence!"

The boy looked up from his book, then looked around the library, then back at her.

"Hi."

"We had _no_ idea you'd be here!" she sat down at the table, and Marissa was forced to sit next to her.

To Taylor's absolute astonishment, Marissa had kept talking to her. She'd honestly expected to have to _force_ herself on Marissa, but the girl was… well, nice. Taylor had told her about Henri-Michel – after Ryan made a speedy exit from dinner two days ago – and how she had no friends here, and Marissa had taken pity on her. They'd hung out last night and watched _They Valley_ season three – sent from Rhode Island from Summer. And tonight they were studying for a Sociology class that they both had – just, conveniently on different days.

Well, Taylor wasn't _actually_ taking the class, but she could fake it really well, and she needed an excuse to get Marissa to the library.

Because good old predictable Ryan always studied here on Thursday nights at seven.

She _loved_ Seth. He was the best informant a soon-to-be international spy could have.

"You know, Taylor, I think Ryan's studying," Marissa tried, but she made no move to stand up, and Ryan made no sound of protest.

"Ryan," Taylor turned to him. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Uh, no, I guess."

"Great!"

* * *

"I know what you're doing."

She opened her eyes wide in innocence and put a hand to her chest. "Me?"

"Yes," Marissa sighed, throwing her purse on Taylor's bed and sitting on it. "You're trying to like… play matchmaker with me and Ryan. I'm not stupid, neither is he."

"So you think he's smart," Taylor leaned forward with a small smile.

"Stop it," Marissa tried to frown, but failed miserably. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"But I'm brilliant as well," she sighed, leaning back. "Obviously you're falling for him again."

"I am not," the taller girl protested, but it wasn't forceful.

"Uh huh," Taylor waved her off. "Now, if you want, you can work with me or against me. But remember: I always get my way, and this situation only has one conclusion. So are you in?"

Marissa looked up and smiled.

* * *

"Ryan! What a coincidence, I had no idea you'd be here!" Taylor exclaimed over the noise of the party.

Ryan, for his part, just quirked an eyebrow at her, eyes already scanning the room for Marissa. She smiled at that – he was exactly like one of Pavlov's dogs. _'Oh Ryan, I had no idea you'd be here_' and he'd look for Marissa. She _so_ had him trained.

She was going to be a fantastic psychologist. Or spy, she hadn't decided which.

"Yeah, hey," he said when he obviously couldn't find Marissa. "I didn't know you partied. Is… are you here by yourself?"

"Oh," she waved her hand at him with a sigh, "Marissa's around _somewhere_."

"Oh."

She almost laughed at the way he stood up straighter.

* * *

Who would've thought?

She and Marissa were actually _friends._ Never in a million years would Taylor have expected that, but it seemed like without the drama and cliques of high school, they actually had a lot in common. Marissa liked fashion and she actually had good taste in music. They would even video chat with Summer – she finally told her and Seth about her escape from France.

She knocked on the door, adjusting the strap on her purse, and prepared herself for another night of _Valley_ marathons and girl talk. It was actually fun – having a friend.

But there was no answer, and she huffed in annoyance, testing the knob. The door was open, and she wasn't one for boundaries, so she pushed it open.

"Oh my God!"

"Taylor!" Marissa exclaimed, sitting up and pulling her shirt down.

"Taylor," Ryan groaned, rolling off the girl. He sat up, reaching down to try and adjust himself before looking up at her blankly. "Oh my God," he droned, "I had no idea you'd be here."

Well, who knew Ryan Atwood could do funny?

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, trying not to grin too much. She shot Marissa a look, quirking an eyebrow, and the other girl quirked hers back, suppressing a smile. "I'll just leave you two alone."

"We'll watch tomorrow night, ok?" Marissa called after her, and Taylor paused in the doorway.

"You still wanna hang out with me?" she asked, turning back to them.

"Yeah," Marissa's eyebrows drew together in confusion. Taylor broke out into a grin and bit her lip. "And hey," Marissa called as Taylor turned away, "we're gonna have to work on hooking you up with someone, next!"

Taylor let the door shut behind her and grinned the entire way back to her dorm.

_

* * *

_

review


	32. Baggage

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Kylaa

_Prompt: baggage_

_Rating: M_

_Music: 'Kreuzberg' by Bloc Party, off the album 'A Weekend in the City'_

_Notes: The idea for this popped into my head as I was driving, listening to Kreuzberg. Yes, I should've been paying attention to the road, but whatever. Also, I am officially on a writing hiatus (or I'm supposed to be) but I've had such a suck couple of days, I'm ready to scream, but I decided to write instead. So I kind of had my emo on, writing this._

* * *

"**Baggage"**

The room was dark, sounds from the city drifting through the open window. The air was thankfully cool, a nice end to a sweltering day. He lay in the hotel bed and stared at the ceiling, one arm slung over his head, the other across his stomach.

He was twenty-five, and he knew something had to change.

He wasn't sure how long he could keep living like this; monotonous, empty. On a day to day basis, he was alright with his life. He went to work, hung out with some friends, went home, watched TV, went to bed, and got up and did the same thing the next day. During the days he was fine.

It was the nights that got to him.

It wasn't until he turned off the lights and tried to shut his eyes that he realized how lonely he was. The girl next to him made a noise and rolled onto her side, but he didn't look at her. He shouldn't drink; it always made him stupid. He'd gone to the bar tonight and had drinks with his coworkers; he shouldn't do that. Because he'd been so sure – in his alcohol-fueled haze – that she was _the one_. She'd been cheerful and beautiful and he'd taken her back to the hotel. But now the alcohol had worn off and she wasn't _the one_. How could she be? He didn't know anything about her. She was just a girl in a bar. Without the alcohol, she didn't glow.

He thought about his future a lot; mostly at night. He thought about how long he could keep up the perpetual bachelor thing he had going on. He knew his generation wasn't getting married until their thirties now, that people stayed single longer, but it bothered him. He hated dating; he hated trying to find a new girl; he hated having to get to know someone new, just to have them up and leave a few weeks or months later. He was only twenty five, but he just wanted to be stable and happy.

He remembered back in high school, when they'd been applying to college and Seth and Summer had first planned to go to Brown together. Seth had said something about his future with Summer – getting married, having kids. It hadn't been a big deal to Seth, but Ryan remembered it hitting him in the gut. He'd been dating Marissa at the time, and he remembered thinking that he'd never _once_ thought about what his future with her was.

And when he did think about it, it wasn't pretty. When he tried to picture his life beyond high school with her, he had sudden, painful flashes of Fresno – of a house that reeked of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke, rooms filled with parents fighting. Sure, they'd probably have a bigger house, and he would make damn sure he didn't hit his kids or her, but… it was the same principle. He'd never seen a future with Marissa, and he never got the chance to even test it out.

He thought he'd found it with Taylor. They spent college in a long-distance relationship. It was hard, only seeing her on holidays and breaks, but he was ok with it, because he could see beyond that. He made it through because he knew that once they graduated, she would move back and he could see marrying her, having kids with her. He could see coming home from whatever job he got and being frustrated – because that's what jobs were supposed to do, right? He'd come home and she'd make him laugh and she'd tell him what the kids did that day. All through college, that thought had made him panic, but it also gave him hope.

She came for his graduation – hers had been a week before – and it turned out she had the same dream of a future. Except she saw it in France. He remembered sitting in his on-campus apartment with her, with packed boxes piled around him, as they stared at each other. Because for four years, he thought she'd come home after college, and she thought he'd come to France.

He had nothing in France, he told her. His family was here. Sure, he didn't have any job offers lined up – yet – and Seth and Summer were staying on the east coast, but at least he had the Cohens. Why should he go to France? There was nothing there for him but her.

And that's when it hit him – why should she go to California? She didn't have family here – her mom had long ago moved to Florida – and her friends were staying in Rhode Island. And she had a job in France, to translate English novels into French. She had nothing in California but him.

They broke up and she went back to France and he stayed in Berkeley with the Cohens, telling himself that it was the right thing. He'd made the right choice – there would be other girls, but there could never be other Cohens.

It had been three years since then. Seth and Summer's wedding two years ago had been painful. Taylor had been the maid of honor and he'd been the best man. They fought, they fucked, they fought some more, and then they stopped talking. She'd gone back to France and he'd gone back to Berkeley.

It hadn't mattered. All of that seemed hopelessly stupid now – giving her up to stay in Berkeley – because he wasn't even _in_ Berkeley anymore. A month after Seth and Summer's wedding, his work had transferred him to their mid-west branch. So it was either move to Detroit or find another job.

He'd spent the last two years trying to figure out why he could leave the Cohens for his job, but not for the girl he'd thought would be his wife one day. He couldn't understand it and it had left a strange ache in his chest that he could ignore during the day.

It wasn't even about Taylor anymore; not really. He kept trying to find someone; he'd go on dates, have relationships, but they never lasted. He'd stopped trying to find _the one_ about eight months ago, and focused instead on _the now_. He went to bars with his work friends and picked up girls and that was the end of it. He wondered if maybe he'd lost the ability to connect with girls. Did it run out? Did the different girls; the different rooms; the different beds slowly drain him of the ability to make a connection?

He found it painfully ironic that he was in Germany right now, on a business trip. One country west of him was France. What would've happened if he'd gone with her? Would they have worked out? Would they be married? Either way, he still wouldn't be with the Cohens. He still wouldn't have Seth and Summer. Would he even have her? Or would he just have been stuck in a country that he didn't know the language of. At least in Detroit he spoke the same language.

Kind of. Cities were weird.

The girl sleeping next to him didn't speak his language. He tried to remember how they'd even gotten here. He knew nothing about her because she babbled away in enthusiastic German while he'd nodded in response. But the way she'd shoved her hand down his pants, the message had been clear. He remembered taking her back to the hotel and thinking _she's the one_.

He didn't even know her name.

He was twenty five years old and nothing was going the way he thought it would. Three years ago he'd had it all planned out – Seth and Summer would come back, Taylor would come back, and they'd all live happily ever after in Berkeley with the Cohens and get jobs that didn't send them halfway round the world. Looking back, he realized how selfish that was. Why would they all give up their lives for him? Why should they have to, especially since he wasn't willing to give his up for theirs?

He had his work friends, but that wasn't enough. He was infinitely lonely. His missed the Cohens; he missed Seth. None of his friends were into comic books or stupid whiny music. They didn't ramble on about themselves. They didn't make him laugh like Seth did. None of their wives and girlfriends made him think like Summer did. None of the girls he dated got him like Taylor did.

He wanted things to go back the way they were, when everyone was together. He wanted his family in one place, he wanted the security of a stable relationship. But most of all, he didn't want to be one of those people, who lived their life wishing they could be back in high school; college. He didn't want to be one of those people ranting about the _good old days_. He wanted to be happy with where he was now, but lying in bed with a random girl whose name he didn't even know didn't make him happy.

Sometimes he thought about calling her, but what was he supposed to say? _Hey, my company moved me away from the Cohens anyway, wanna get back together now?_ That was awful. He'd already put her second once, he wasn't about to call her up and remind her of that – especially when he was only calling her because first on his list had been taking away from him. She didn't deserve second place; she deserved to have some guy who would put her first. He hadn't been able to do that, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to. He didn't even know if she was still single. She could be married, for all he knew.

He had too much baggage for a twenty five year old. Maybe that was why he couldn't settle; couldn't be happy with his lot in life. But the Cohens had gotten his hopes up; given him the dream that maybe he was meant to be happy. But maybe he wasn't. Maybe it was his destiny to be one of the millions of people, tepid about their life. It wasn't good, it wasn't bad. It was monotonous and boring, and he seemed to be the only one with a problem. The Cohens had give him hope, he should just learn to ignore it.

When this trip was over, he'd make a change. He'd start dating again, find a nice girl and settle down. He'd have his 2.5 children and a dog and a white picket fence. He'd go to work and come home and his wife would ask him how his day was, and he'd kiss her and tell her it was _ok_ and they'd all sit down for dinner. After that, the kids would do homework and he and his wife would watch boring TV and make small talk, then go to bed. He'd get up the next day and do the same thing.

He'd stop hoping Seth and Summer would move back to Berkeley so he'd have a reason to too. He'd stop hoping he'd find another girl that understood him; that read his mind; that turned him on. He'd stop hoping that his life would be exciting again. He'd take stability if he couldn't have his family.

Maybe then the bitter taste in his mouth would go away.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, ignoring the soft snores from next to him.

He had decided, at twenty five, that something must change.

_

* * *

_

review


	33. Consequences

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Taylorforever

_Prompt: consequences_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Living Dead Girl (Subliminal Seduction Remix)' by Rob Zombie, off the album 'American Made Music to Strip By'_

_Notes: Yes, I am still officially on hiatus, but I had some free time over Thanksgiving break, so I wrote this. Also, I think I'm going to end this soon, maybe at 35 chapters. That seems like enough. And I already have the last chapter of this written, so there's really only one more prompt I need. I know I haven't used a lot of the ones you've already sent me, and you can still try to send me more if you want, I just can't guarantee it'll be the one I choose for chapter 34. _

* * *

"**Consequences"**

"You sure you're ok, kid?" Sandy's voice broke through his thoughts and he looked up at his… father.

His father. It was damned official now, after… _that_.

"I should be asking you that," he tried to joke, but his voice was hoarse, and the way his hands shook didn't make for believable humor.

Sandy seemed to notice his attempt and tried to smile, hand lifting up to touch his eye, already darkening. "I'm fine, I used to take hits all the time back in the Bronx."

"This is all my fault," Taylor whispered, and he turned to his girlfriend, face white, ringing her hands.

"How?" he asked, too tired to deal with her right now. He couldn't deal with her, he couldn't deal with… this.

"If I hadn't bothered you about inviting him over, this never would've happened," she whined, looking for all the world like she was about to break. Did she honestly care about him that much?

"No, it's mine," Kirsten cut in, just as pale, just as horrified. "Sandy, I'm sorry…"

"Kirsten, it's my fault," Sandy started, and Ryan felt his head start to pound. He couldn't deal with this. "I _knew_ we couldn't trust him, and I still let him into my home. I'm sorry, it's my…"

"Stop," Ryan said, closing his eyes.

"Ryan?" Kirsten asked, voice wary, and he felt her icy hand come to rest on his shoulder. "Honey, I'm so sorry…"

"Stop apologizing," he shook her hand off, getting off the stool. "This isn't… Sandy, you keep telling me that nothing's my fault. Mar- the accident, what Volchok did, you keep telling me that's not my fault. This isn't your fault, either. It's his."

He'd never seen Sandy look so proud, but he couldn't handle this right now.

"You're right." It was Kirsten that spoke up, and he turned to watch her straighten up, squaring her shoulders. Thank God, this was the Kirsten he knew. "And Ryan, from now on, you have my full permission to never see your father again."

"He's not my father," he managed to get out, looking Sandy square in the eye. The man tried not to smile, but it didn't quite work, and he winced as the grin hurt his eye.

"I should go," Taylor whispered, voice low like she was on the verge of tears – whether from his statement or whether she was still reeling over Frank punching Sandy, he couldn't tell.

He nodded and walked outside with her, just in case Frank had decided to hang around. He didn't really expect it, not with the way Frank had bolted after Sandy's head had cracked against the wall, but he was so _done_ with taking chances. The coast was clear and she unlocked her car with shaking hands.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, and he didn't have the energy to correct her. She opened her door but hesitated before flinging her arms around him and trying to squeeze the life out of him. He closed his eyes and tried to take comfort from it, but his brain still hadn't caught up with everything. "I love you, Ryan," she breathed against his neck before pulling away, getting in her car, and speeding away.

He blinked.

He couldn't deal with this right now.

…

"I think it makes me look distinguished," Sandy said, admiring himself in the mirror.

"It makes you look like you take the job 'Public Defender' way too seriously," Seth joked, but the kid was still obviously shaken by his father's state. Not that Ryan blamed him. Sometimes it was all too easy to forget that Sandy Cohen wasn't invincible.

"Let's go," Kirsten smiled, shaking her head at her son and husband.

"I can't wait till everyone starts asking what happened," Seth droned, heading out the door. Ryan followed, silently agreeing.

Sandy hadn't really gone out in public since the Frank debacle, and he wasn't sure a NewMatch party was the best place to make his bruised debut. But Kirsten had a business to run and Sandy was all too eager to show up with a black eye and freak out all the Newpsies.

…

"Julie," Kirsten said, eyes flashing.

Ryan was frozen, only vaguely aware that Taylor was hissing in pain, his fingers probably bruising her wrist.

"Look, Kirsten, I know he made a mistake," Julie sighed, looking over her shoulder at her date, who was currently talking with Bullitt.

"A mistake?" Kirsten jerked back in shock. "He _punched_ my husband. How _dare_ you invite him?"

"It's my company, too," Julie frowned. "And Frank's not a bad guy."

"Well, she's got you there, honey," Sandy broke in, monotone. "Frank's a good guy, remember? Spousal abuse, breaking and entering, public drunkenness, armed robbery…"

"He's owned up to all that," Julie turned her frown on Sandy now, eyes hardening and Ryan's stomach heaved.

"I have to go," he mumbled, letting go of Taylor's wrist and stumbling off to the bathroom. He could vaguely hear Sandy and Taylor call his name and Julie and Kirsten still fighting, but he didn't pay attention.

He made it to the bathroom just in time for his stomach to rebel, and he threw up into the thankfully clean porcelain.

Julie was lying. She _knew_ Frank was a bad guy; he'd seen it in her eyes. But the way they'd narrowed when someone challenged her decision… God, it reminded him so much of Marissa. Denial, stubbornness; it was the same way Marissa used to react whenever someone told her that what she was doing was dangerous.

He couldn't handle this right now.

…

He stood nervously on the porch, but he didn't see Frank's car, so he figured he shouldn't worry too much.

"Ryan," Kaitlin answered, opening the door wide. "Taylor's not here."

"I'm actually here to see your mom," he answered, stepping in when she moved aside.

"This about Frank?" the girl asked, quirking her eyebrow.

"Where is she?" he asked, ignoring the question. Kaitlin just rolled her eyes and pointed to the kitchen.

"Ryan," Julie greeted when he came in, looking up from what was apparently a cookbook. "How are you?"

"I've been better," he said, wondering why the hell he chose _now_ to go about telling people his feelings. "You should stay away from Frank," he said, skipping all the pleasantries.

"Look, Ryan, I've heard these arguments before," Julie soothed, frowning at him in pity, like he was some petulant child who just didn't understand grown up things. "Frank's a good guy, he just got carried away."

He wasn't about to go making all the arguments again, he couldn't deal with it right now. "He's dangerous," was all he said, clenching his hands into fists at his side to keep from shaking. "He'll hurt you and he'll hurt Kaitlin."

"Ryan, your past with him is clouding your judgment," Julie argued. "You'll see, he'll prove you wrong."

He didn't know what else to say; it was like slamming his head against a brick wall. She was just like Marissa. Or the other way around. He couldn't handle this, he didn't know what else to do.

So he turned and left, passing Kaitlin on the way out.

"Hey, Ryan," she called, catching up to him at the door. He turned to look at her, and she grinned. "Don't worry, I'm handling Frank."

"Kaitlin, don't…" he tried to warn, but she waved him off.

"It's no big. Just let me handle him and my mom; they'll be broken up in no time."

"Kaitlin," he tried again, but she just grinned and shut the door.

…

He didn't hear about Frank for weeks.

He and Seth had stopped going over to Summers' to hang out. The four of them either hung out at the Cohen's, or at the pier. Kaitlin joined them every once in a while, but whenever he questioned or tried to warn her about Frank, she just told him it was under control. He couldn't seem to convince her that the guy was dangerous; it was like the Coopers had some invisible barrier against his logic.

Kirsten had stopped talking to Julie, keeping their interaction at NewMatch to a minimum. She worked from home a lot, now, and Sandy was perfectly fine with cutting Julie out of his life.

…

They got the call early on a Thursday morning.

He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but he was pretty sure it involved Frank, and he knew they were going to a hospital, so he knew it couldn't be good.

When they got there, he honestly expected Julie to be broken and bruised, or in a coma, or hell, even dead. But she wasn't, she was pacing the waiting room, eyes red and swollen. The skin around her nails were bleeding, but she kept biting at them.

He wasn't sure what was happening, but Kirsten didn't even stop to offer comfort, she just walked past and up to a doctor, demanding to know how _she_ was.

She? If it wasn't Julie…

"Cohen!" he heard Summer call, and he turned to watch the girl come down the hall, coffee cup in her hand. The breath he didn't know he'd been holding let out when he saw Taylor following, holding two cups. She didn't give one to Julie like he'd expected, instead coming over to him.

"I was hoping you'd be here by the time we got back," she rambling, pressing the coffee into his hands. "I mean, I know hospital coffee is like, the butt of all coffee based jokes, but I figured it was better than nothing, you know? When someone drinks as much coffee as you do, the caffeine is more soothing than anything, and…"

"Taylor," he interrupted, not even looking at the coffee. "What's going on?"

Her face fell and her eyes flicked over to Julie. "Kristen didn't tell you? Obviously not," she scolded herself, shifting from foot to foot. "I was sleeping, so was Summer, but we heard…"

"Kaitlin," he said, finally remembering who was missing. "He hit Kaitlin?"

"I think so," she said, biting her lip. "I was asleep, I just heard the crash and then Julie screamed and when I went down, there was so much blood and I fainted a little," she pointed to her forehead, where he saw a bandage. "When I woke up, Summer had already called the police. Julie went in the ambulance and Summer and I followed in her car…"

"Frank?" he asked, feeling his hands start to shake again.

"I think he ran," she said. "After what happened, I think he ran. Summer says the police are out looking…"

He didn't let her finish and walked over to Julie, vaguely aware that Taylor followed.

"What happened?" he tried to demand, but his voice was shaking too badly for it to sound commanding.

"It was Kaitlin," she sniffed, scratching at the back of her hand, where the skin was bright red. "She just kept pushing Frank… first the clown porn, then posting his mug shot everywhere… I told her to stop, but she wouldn't. Frank just wanted to talk to her, show her that he wasn't a bad guy, but she just kept _pushing_. If she hadn't pushed…"

"Do _not_ blame Kaitlin for this," Kirsten broke in, looking absolutely horrified. "We warned you, too many times to count, that Frank was dangerous, and you let him near your child. _Your child_, Julie. You already lost one."

Ryan felt his stomach heave, but the hand on his arm kept him from losing it completely.

God, he couldn't handle this.

…

"Ryan," the girl greeted, but the normal sarcasm in her voice was absent.

"God, Kaitlin," he breathed. "What the hell did he do to you?"

She shrugged, trying to smile. "Obviously not enough. Look," she waved her hand around, "I'm still alive. Mission: not accomplished."

This wasn't funny. This was so far from funny. "I'm sorry," he said. He hadn't blamed himself for Sandy getting hit, because he'd protested Frank's attendance at dinner, and, well… it was Sandy. Sandy could take care of himself.

But he should've protected Kaitlin better. He should've tried harder to warn her, to get her to back off Frank.

"Ryan," Kaitlin interrupted, "this isn't your fault. You warned me not to mess with him, I did it anyway. I'm a big girl, I can deal with the consequences of my actions. I'm not Marissa."

"No," he said, "you're not. And I want you to prove it to me."

"What?" she asked, wincing as she tried to sit up.

"I want you to prove you're not her. Show me how much smarter you are."

"Are you trying to Jedi mind-trick me?" she asked, and he vaguely wondered if she'd been talking to Taylor too much.

"Yes," he said.

"Alright," she nodded.

"No more being stupid?"

"No more," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "Mostly cause I hate seeing you like this. You're pathetic, you know that? I'm the one here in a near body cast, all black and blue, and _you're _the one acting like the wimp."

He laughed at that, finally sitting down in the chair next to her hospital bed. "It's not a body cast," he argued, smiling. "You only have two casts, stop exaggerating."

She grinned at him and he felt himself relax for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

…

"Wow, mom," Kaitlin droned from the bed, "more flowers. Guilty much?"

"Baby, I'm so sorry," Julie croaked, tears forming in her eyes again. "I didn't know…"

Ryan closed his eyes, blocking out the excuses. They were the same ones Dawn used to make.

He opened them again when he felt Kaitlin's hand in his. She wasn't looking at him, though, she was paying attention to her mother, but her fingers were tight around his, and he squeezed back, letting her know he was there. He wasn't leaving.

Julie's flow of apologies cut off when the door opened, and Kirsten breezed in.

"Kaitlin," his newly official mother smiled, completely ignoring her once friend. "How are you?"

"Feeling better," Kaitlin smiled back, her hand loosening on his. "Plus, there's this _gorgeous_ male nurse who works night shifts. I keep trying to get him to give me a sponge bath…"

Kirsten laughed lightly, sparing a second to shoot him a look, before turning back to the girl. "I just came by to let you know that when you get out of here, we always have a guest room open."

"What?" Julie cut in.

"A guest room," Kirsten repeated coldly. "Like a room where guests stay."

"She's my daughter…" Julie protested, but Kirsten turned from her.

"If you ever need a place to stay, we have one."

"How _dare_…" Julie started, but Kirsten had already left.

…

"Thanks, packhorse," Kaitlin sighed, leaning up against the doorframe.

"You know, you only have one broken arm, you could help," he grunted, hauling her bag up the stairs.

"Yeah, but it's so much more fun watching you struggle," she shrugged. "It's even funnier watching him," she nodded back down the stairs, where Seth was having even more trouble.

"C'mon, Cohen," Summer ordered, passing him on the stairs, "stop being so pathetic."

…

"I never thought I'd say this," Kirsten sighed as she sat at the table, "but I think our house is too small."

"That's because you never thought you'd have three extra bodies," Sandy joked, nodding his head toward the three girls.

Ryan couldn't help the way his stomach flipped when Sandy didn't count him as an 'extra'.

"I don't see why Ryan has to sleep in my room," Seth whined, grabbing for a box of Lo Mein.

Kirsten just glared and he heard Summer whisper something to her boyfriend. He wasn't sure what, but he already knew the answer.

The pool house was abandoned.

Kirsten didn't want any of her children out of the main house; not with Frank still on the loose.

So he was on a futon in Seth's room, Summer and Taylor were shacked up in one of the guest rooms, and Kaitlin had her own – her argument being that she was injured, and therefore deserved it.

None of them argued.

Julie had Dr. Roberts' house all to herself now. She'd tried to protest Kaitlin's leaving, but Kirsten had threatened to get the police involved, and Julie had backed down. It was then that Ryan realized just how much could come out of a police investigation into Julie's parenting skills. And he was sure that Kirsten had something else up her sleeve, but he couldn't be sure what. All he knew was that he'd overheard Kirsten saying something like 'I'll do you one last favor and not call the police'.

And honestly, he didn't care.

…

"Hey," he heard a small voice call from the doorway, and he turned to watch Kaitlin hobble in. She was getting better at walking with her crutches, and he knew she was using them to garner full sympathy at school.

"Hey," he nodded back, shifting over to let her drop onto the couch. Next to him, Taylor made a noise and shifted in her sleep, but she didn't wake up. "What're you doing up?"

"My leg's itching," she said, nodding down at her cast. "Plus, I had a bad dream."

He didn't push it. It was probably the same dream he always had.

They sat in silence for a while until Taylor muttered something in her sleep that sounded like _pink whale eggs_.

"I'm sorry," Kaitlin said, eyeing Taylor down warily. "I didn't mean to set him off."

"It's not your fault," he said, realizing that he'd said that more in the past couple of weeks than he had in his entire life. Maybe he was actually beginning to believe it, too.

Not everything was his fault; and he sure as hell didn't blame any of his family.

"I know," Kaitlin sighed. "I just feel like I stirred up all this unnecessary drama because I couldn't shut my mouth."

"It would've happened either way," he said quietly. "Maybe not to you, but maybe Julie, or Summer, or Taylor. It would've happened eventually."

Kaitlin nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. Next to him, Taylor's arm draped over his leg and he let himself relax as he and Kaitlin watched the late night movie.

_

* * *

_

review


	34. Security

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: keydazy

_Prompt: security blanket_

_Rating: T_

_Music: 'Public Pervert (Carlos D Remix)' by Interpol, off the album 'Antics'_

_Notes: I'm really sorry if I didn't pick your prompt, but I got the idea and this one worked. I know there are people who prompted that I haven't written anything for and again, I'm so sorry. I hope you all still enjoy this and maybe someone can guess where I got my inspiration. Also, I only have one more chapter after this and I already have the prompt picked out, but thank you all so much for making them in the first place. (oh, and I have no idea what happened to my so-called 'hiatus')_

* * *

**"Security"**

It was late and they were drunk when Eddie's jacked '68 Camaro hit the curb and rolled up onto the Vogel's front lawn.

"Shit," Anthony whispered as the car came to a stop.

"Do you think she's up?" Wayne stared at the house "I heard she's easy."

"Don't let 'Turo hear you talking like that," Eddie said back, scratching at his chin, where he was trying to grow a beard.

"Fuck 'Turo," Anthony said, but it was just drunken bravado.

"Fuck his sister," Wayne said, still staring out the passenger side window. "Who's going in?"

There was a pause before he spoke up.

"I'll go." They turned to him and he shrugged. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or something else, because he didn't ever volunteer for the suicide missions. "Trey and 'Turo are friends; I know her."

The others nodded and he got out of the car, unsteadily, as the alcohol tilted the ground. His bare feet padded across the Vogel's lawn, over to the Diaz's. The grass under him was cool and it calmed the fuzz in his brain and he wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing here.

Not here in particular, now standing at her back door and knocking softly, but here, with his friends, doing suicide missions. But his mom was at home, drunk and fucking her new boyfriend and Trey was out, probably with 'Turo, who hated him. 'Turo hated him and Trey needed his crew more than he needed a little brother, so Ryan had to find his own friends. It had started easily enough, with Eddie, who was usually nice. Then came Wayne and Anthony and the suicide missions.

Riding their bikes off insane ramps, pipe bombs in the school toilets, dares that could get them in trouble, or arrested, if anyone ever knew it was them.

A light in the hall clicked on and he saw a girl in a fuzzy yellow bathrobe walk toward him.

Was that Theresa? He hadn't seen her in two years, since the Diaz's moved to a nicer piece of shit house on one of the nicer shady streets. Through the glass, she glared at him, and he knew it was her. She unlocked the door and slid it open, narrowing her eyes at him.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, accusing, and he forgot, for a moment, why he was here.

"Hey," he said, lamely, wishing he'd run when he had the chance. But on the other side of the house, on the Vogel's lawn, Eddie, Anthony, and Wayne were waiting for him and he couldn't back out now.

"You're not wearing shoes," she said, looking down, then up. He looked down as well, as if he'd just realized now that he'd been running around in his jeans and a wife beater and bare feet.

"No," he said, looking back up at her. "I'm not."

She frowned at him for a while before stepping back. "Wanna come in?"

He nodded and followed her in, keeping quiet because he remembered that Mrs. Diaz had a set of lungs on her and she was damned fast with a butcher knife. He kind of liked his fingers. And his junk. Plus, 'Turo hated him and even though he didn't think the guy was home, better safe than sorry. Theresa led him down a hall and he watched the way the hem of her bathrobe caught on her pajama bottoms as she walked.

Her room was blue and green and a statue of The Madonna stood on her dresser. She had a copy of Borges's _Seven Nights_ on her nightstand and the covers on her bed were thrown back, with an indentation in the pillow that made him blush.

"I haven't seen you around in a while," she said, sitting on her bed and tilting her head at him.

"Sorry I'm not wearing shoes," he said back, scratching the back of his head. "I don't know where they went."

He vaguely remembered spilling beer on them and, per Eddie's suggestion, taking them off and leaving them in the garden behind Wayne's house.

She frowned at him again and he realized that she hadn't asked about his shoes in the slightest. Through the alcohol in his brain he realized he should go before he made a bigger fool of himself than he already had, but the threat of his friends kept his feet planted on the ground as he stood in front of her, shoeless.

"So what are you doing here?" she asked, staring up at him, not offering him a seat or, perhaps, a pair of her brother's shoes.

"Wayne heard you were easy," he said and he realized when she raised an eyebrow at him that it hadn't been the smartest thing to say. "He wanted to come see if it was true. I told them I'd talk to you."

"Right," she said, not smiling and he wondered if she bought it. "So basically you're here to save me from your perverted friends."

"I don't know why I'm here," he said and he didn't mean in here in her room.

He didn't know why he was still in Chino; why he hadn't taken that lawyer guy up on his offer of a place to stay after mom kicked him and Trey out a couple years back. They'd been thirteen and mom's boyfriend of the week had robbed a convenience store. His mom had been angry, taking it out on him and Trey, and Boyfriend's court appointed lawyer had given him a card with a name and a phone number and an offer of help, if he ever needed it. Then mom had thrown them out after Trey made a comment about who she was gonna fuck now that Boyfriend was in jail. They'd been walking the streets and he'd taken the card out of his pocket but he hadn't called, because Trey was there.

Mom had let them come back, which was good, because who would've taken him in? He'd been thirteen, it wasn't like anyone wanted to adopt a full grown kid with bruises and most likely psychological problems.

That was all after the Diaz's had left and he was fifteen now and he wondered, not for the first time, if it would be weird if he called the lawyer up now and asked for help. It didn't matter, the lawyer guy had probably been shitting him, anyway.

She stood up and frowned at him, still, tilting her head like she was studying his face.

"Are your friends here?" she asked, calmly, which surprised him because he figured she'd have started yelling by now.

"Out front," he answered, which was the wrong answer again, he should've told her _no_. Eddie would've said no. Trey would've. They were better with girls.

"And they're waiting for you to come back and tell them how you scored with me," she guessed and he could only nod, trying to find a place in the room to look at that wasn't her face or the indent in her pillow or The Madonna on her dresser.

He was surprised, though, when her lips touched his, and the warm fuzz of her pajamas was soft under his arms.

When she pulled away he remembered how to breathe and she tilted her head again. "Do you have a condom?" she asked, not blinking, not blushing in the slightest.

"Are you serious?" he asked, not sure why he felt disappointed. Had Wayne been right?

"I always liked you," she said. "You're cute and honest. And Arturo doesn't like you," she added and he had a sinking feeling that that was all it was. But if he left now, his friends wouldn't ever let him forget it.

When he didn't answer, she sighed and reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He didn't stop her as she leafed through it, for the condom that he knew wasn't there, and he only started to protest when she pulled out the worn white business card that was the only thing in there besides his cigarette money.

"What's this?" she asked, frowning at it and the handwritten home phone number on the back.

"Nothing," he said, grabbing his wallet from her hand, then the card and he made sure it went back into its appropriate slot. Only then did the weird buzzing in his head stop and he closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket. "I should go."

"Fine," she said, still frowning at him and he turned and left her room, making sure to be quiet because he remembered Mrs. Diaz had a temper.

When he got back to the car, the three were passed out and he got in the back and slammed his door shut and woke them up.

"So?" Eddie asked, sounding like he didn't want to know and Ryan remembered that Eddie'd had a crush on Theresa, back when she'd been in school with them.

"He's only been gone for ten minutes," Wayne said as Eddie started the car again and the dashboard clock came on. "That's weak, man."

"We didn't," he said, feeling the shame rush through him. He couldn't tell if it was because he'd left or because he'd even gone in the first place or because she'd offered it to him. He couldn't tell which disappointed him more. "She's not easy," he said, to make himself feel better and to make Eddie feel better, and maybe even to shut Wayne and Anthony up the next time they saw 'Turo, so they wouldn't get their asses beat.

Eddie drove them back to Wayne's where he grabbed his bike and told them he'd ride back home. Wayne didn't care and Anthony was too drunk, but Eddie frowned and asked if he was sure, to which he replied yes and rode away. The alcohol made him swerve and a couple times he had to put his feet down before he tipped over, but he made it home and slipped in the back window because mom had deadbolted him out again.

He threw his wallet on the bedside table and took off his pants and got into bed and stared up at the ceiling, but he couldn't fall asleep. Something in the back of his head was bothering him and eventually he rolled over and picked up his faded leather wallet and opened it, feeling the relief rush through him when he saw the familiar faded business card.

It was still there.

He put his wallet under his pillow and shut his eyes and thought that maybe tomorrow would be the day he finally called the lawyer to get him out of this place.

_

* * *

_

review


	35. Cold

_**See the AN in the first chapter for the whole explanation.**_

_

* * *

_

For: Brookscott134

_Prompt: popsicle sticks and glue_

_Rating: K+_

_Music: 'Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24' by The Trans-Siberian Orchestra, off the album 'Christmas Eve and Other Stories'_

_Notes: I know it's not that close to Christmas yet, I held off as long as I could. I lasted five days. So early Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and anything else applicable. (oh, and my sappy AN is at the end)_

* * *

"**Cold"**

She woke up alone.

Reaching her arm out, she concluded that yes, the other side of the bed was, in fact, empty. The clock on the bedside table was a shiny red _1:23_.

In the morning.

She pushed up and rolled out of bed. Well, she didn't so much _roll_ as she did _fall_, but there wasn't anyone around to make that distinction.

Which was kind of why she got up to begin with.

The hardwood floor under her feet was cold and she padded out of the room, into the hall. Two quick stops along the way – both sleeping, peaceful – before she made her way downstairs. It was eerily silent and she rubbed her hands over her bare arms to warm them up. The multicolored lights from the tree cast a comforting glow through the room, but it didn't help the chill or the feeling of solitude.

There was no one downstairs.

The kitchen was just as empty as the living room, only darker, and she stared at the blank note pad that hung on the refrigerator next to the advent calendar. If he'd had to run out suddenly, he should have written her a note. Waking her up would've been the better choice, but still, he always left a note. But there was nothing there now and she couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine.

They'd been fighting recently. Not anything huge, just general frustrations with life and work and the kids getting to them. Plus, with the holidays and the added stress of having to see her mother again, she'd been extra off-balance. Last night, they'd fought again and they'd both gone to bed angry.

But he wouldn't just _leave_.

He wouldn't. She knew him better than that. He wouldn't; he couldn't. It was Christmas Eve, he couldn't just _leave_. Although now that she thought about it, it was actually Christmas; the clock on the microwave read _1:31_.

He couldn't just leave her; he couldn't leave his kids. It wasn't like him to just run away when he was angry – well, not anymore. He'd proven that time and time again; it wasn't like this was the first time they'd ever fought. And it definitely hadn't even come _close_ to their worst fight ever. Not even in the top twenty. And he'd stayed all those other times, why pick this one to just… up and leave in the middle of the night?

There was a slight _thud_ from somewhere outside and her heart leapt in her chest. Burglar? Or was it just some animal?

She crept to the door in the kitchen that lead into the back yard and peered out, but she couldn't see anything. After a brief pause, she heard the noise again and resolutely grabbed a flashlight and a steak knife from the drawer and opened the back door as silently as she could.

The ground outside was colder than the floors of the house had been and the grass crackled slightly under her feet; stiff with frost. She ignored that, though, and peered around the back yard, shining her light into corners, over the garden, past the shed. There was still nothing, so she readjusted her grip on the knife and walked slowly around the side of the house.

To her surprise, the garage light was on; she could see it through the side window. Was someone in her garage? The door wasn't open, so she didn't know how they'd gotten in there, unless they'd been inside the house to begin with…

The thought made her race back to the kitchen door, which she shut and locked behind her. The flashlight went on the kitchen counter, but the knife stayed in her hand, her arm tensed as she made her way to the back hall and the inside door to the garage. Sure enough, it was unlocked and she gripped the doorknob, steeling herself before pulling it open.

"Ryan," she breathed, tension draining out of her so fast that she almost collapsed. He turned his head to look at her and raised his eyebrows.

"I know we're fighting and you're pissed, but do you really think stabbing me is the answer?"

"What?" she scrunched her forehead in confusion until he gestured at the knife in her hand. "Oh, no. I just thought… I heard a noise; I thought someone was in the house."

"So you were gonna attack them with a steak knife?" he asked as he leaned up against his work table.

"What was I supposed to do? Hide under my covers?"

"No, you let me go investigate and you stay with the kids."

"I didn't know where you were," she threw back, adding a bit of accusation to her tone. His face fell and he shrugged. "What are you doing, anyway?" she asked, looking past him finally, to the rest of the garage.

He'd converted it a few years ago into a workshop when he claimed that, if he couldn't go running anymore – she found it infinitely annoying to be woken up at four in the morning, every morning – he needed _some_ way to release energy. So he'd made the garage a workshop and set about building almost every piece of furniture in their house.

Now the garage was filled with large pieces of wood and she noticed for the first time that he was wearing his tool belt and had a screwdriver in his hand.

"Oh," he shrugged, bringing his empty hand up to rub the back of his neck. "I just figured the boys would wanna play with their new swing set right away. Plus, it'll be cooler to show them this than the stupid box it came in…"

She walked further into the garage, shutting the door behind her in case David or Logan came downstairs. "And you decided this when?"

"A couple hours ago," he shrugged again. "You know I can't sleep after we fight."

She smiled slightly and picked up a piece of paper, filled with complicated drawings and instructions. She stared at it for a few seconds, frowning, until he came over, took it from her hands, flipped it around, and handed it back to her.

"Oh."

"This is why you're not allowed to help me in here," he reminded her, turning away and picking up a wooden beam.

"No, I'm not allowed to help you because you're a control freak," she hoisted herself up onto an unused work bench to watch him work. "Remember that time you yelled at me for painting the bench the wrong color?"

"I didn't 'yell', and you put the sealer on before the stain. It kinda doesn't work like that."

"Fine. Are you almost done with this?"

"Almost," he shrugged, looking appraisingly at the half-built set. "Why?"

"Because I'm cold and I can't sleep when I'm cold."

He smiled but didn't look at her as he attached the beam of wood to the structure. She honestly had no idea how these things worked; she didn't see _swing set_ in there at all. It just looked like a bunch of wood screwed together; like popsicle sticks slapped together haphazardly with glue.

"I'm almost done with the main framework," he said, gesturing at the thing. "Then I'm gonna take it back out and assemble the rest there."

"Come to bed," she whined, frowning.

"I thought we were fighting."

"We are," she frowned deeper when he didn't even bother to turn around and talk to her. "But I want you to come up to bed so I can pretend you're not there. The silent treatment and angry glares don't work when you're not there to be on the receiving end."

He laughed, finally, and turned to her. "Go back up," he told her, coming over to where she sat. "Put on something sensible," his eyes went to her thin pajamas – useless against the cold – "and go to sleep. I'll be up when I'm done and I'll be appropriately needy and depressed that you're not talking to me."

"You _promise_?" she pouted and he laughed again.

"Yes."

"Fine. Try not to take too long, the last thing I need is you falling asleep while the boys are opening presents."

"I'll try." She nodded and hopped off the work bench and went back into the house.

An hour and a half later, she woke up again as the bed dipped and he slid under the covers with her. She let out a sigh as she rolled over and buried her head into his chest and she felt it rumble as he laughed, silently. "I thought you were gonna ignore me?" he murmured into her hair and his arms slipped around her waist. She shrugged.

"Merry Christmas, Ryan."

"Merry Christmas," he whispered back, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "Go to sleep. I have a feeling David'll run in here the minute the sun rises to wake us up."

"He always does."

_

* * *

_

**So this is it, the end. I thank you all for the prompts and the inspiration. This has been one of the most enjoyable things I've written, and it spawned my favorite chaptered fic, so I will always be grateful. I hope you've enjoyed this series, too. –x**


End file.
